


Clockwork Camelot: An Arthurian Romance

by Elizabeth



Series: Clockwork Camelot [1]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV), Merlin Series - Mary Stewart
Genre: Action/Adventure, Airships, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Libraries, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Now with an epilogue!!Merlin is pretty sure Arthur Pendragon is a spoiled bully, and Arthur is certain Merlin is an idiot. When fate throws them together (with whispers of destiny and whatnot) to save Albion from a long-forgotten foe, both are skeptical. But as they work together to recover a missing clockwork amulet, a friendship is formed and a bond is created that will change everything.This is a steampunk-influenced quest story in which Camelot has stood for centuries as a gathering place for sorcerers, alchemists, physicians, and knights to learn their trades and master arcane skills. Now, curious minds can arrive by airship from across the empire, seeking glory and whatever knowledge the old gods choose to bestow. The story is also inspired by the mythology of Mary Stewart's Merlin trilogy, and a few of her characterizations and plot devices.Slow burn.





	1. Camelot

**Author's Note:**

> Mature from chapter nine. More mature from chapter fifteen.
> 
> I don't have a beta; sorry for any typos.  
> Also, obviously all credit to BBC & Mary Stewart for characters and such. I'm not profiting from this, etc.

The path to the library was crooked and worn, one of the oldest on the grounds. Years before it was paved with cobblestones, it was a brown footpath followed by travelers, monks, teachers, and scholars. It had existed for decades. Maybe centuries. Merlin loved the path to the library.

It was true that there were easier ways to move about Camelot. Because it had stood as a fortress for centuries, the kings and nobles inhabiting the castle and surrounding buildings had ensured comfortable means of ingress and egress regardless of weather or war. The last siege had been attempted 200 years earlier, in the 17th century, but by then it took little effort to dispatch Camelot’s remaining knights through the tunnel system—on horseback, no less—to eliminate the foe. Merlin didn’t mind the tunnels, which his classmates largely preferred in rain or snow, but the crooked path seemed to speak to him. Especially where it crossed through the circle of standing stones, Merlin felt friendly eyes on his back as the old gods watched him hustle back and forth, knapsack over his shoulder. He knew they were watching, had known since he arrived at Camelot, but it was a benevolent gaze that warmed him, even when the wind blew cold and the sleet bit his cheeks. So Merlin accepted, even welcomed the gaze, and sought it out between sessions with his tutors and long afternoons in the library vaults.

As it was a particularly inhospitable afternoon, Merlin pulled his heavy blue scarf up over his face and buttoned his overcoat to prevent it billowing in the wind. He leaned briefly against one of the standing stones to make these adjustments before continuing to the library.

At its core, the library was the oldest building in Camelot. Even before the Romans came and built a shrine, the place had been scared to the Druids. With the coming of the new religion, it had fallen into disrepair, while the chapel was built nearby, but the transformation to a place of learning had followed soon after. By the time Camelot became the school, or institute, or whatever it could be called, the library housed scrolls and tomes covered in thick, ancient dust. It was larger now, and the gaslights illuminated the dust motes and arcane mist that always seemed to hover just out of reach. But Merlin preferred, when he was alone, to lose himself in the oldest stacks.

 

The library was difficult to describe to anyone who hadn’t seen it. When Merlin had first written to his mother and tried, he found himself at a loss. It was a library and an archive, but also a laboratory, in a sense. Alcoves and naves were tucked around corners for work or, Merlin found, sleep. Or, as others found, not sleep. It was many things, like Camelot itself.

Camelot wasn’t a school, though many came to learn. It wasn’t a university, though its scholars were of different ages, some being but children and others quite old. Many came to learn magic, but most had none. Others came to learn warcraft and defense against magical beasts. Others just came.

 

Merlin shook the rain off the long black overcoat and pulled at the scarf so that it just came to his waistcoat. He twisted his knapsack around so that it laid across his back and stepped quietly through the library atrium. Above him, a winding staircase led to a wide glass dome with a massive telescope, and shelves lined the walls around the library tower. Just overhead, golden orbs danced through the air in a replica of the galaxy. It was this, originally, that fascinated Merlin so. He stood as his friend Gwen pointed out constellations, mouth hanging open as he listened to her tell him the stories behind each shape.

That was just his second week in Camelot. He had been eighteen, and just finished the parochial school in the village. His mother sent him to stay with his Uncle Gaius to learn the healing arts in Camelot, where he was the leading physician and medical scholar. Merlin had magic, had since birth, and Hunith hoped he would use it to help the village by learning medicine.

He had met Guinevere a few days before. She wasn’t a student at Camelot herself, but rather a staff member who had lived there forever with her father. Thom, her father, could make the finest mail and strongest swords in the empire. Merlin had stumbled upon Gwen, quite literally. She was laying on her back watching an airship pass when Merlin came across her, nose-in-book. They ended up both covered in grass and fast friends.

“That’s Virgo, there, because that’s Arcturus, and Ursa Major.”

“The virgin?” Merlin had asked with only a hint of a smile.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “She’s a goddess—Demeter—mother of Persephone.”

“Then she isn’t a virgin.”

“Okay, then I guess she’s associated with Demeter, not a representation of her.”

“It is beautiful,” Merlin was saying. And he was about to add some witty comment about Guinevere’s substantial beauty when he felt himself go flying. He had been pushed (naturally, as people, even wizards, do not spontaneously fly across a library atrium) and landed sprawled in a rather unbecoming way against a rack of rather old maps.  
“Watch it, you prat!” he all but shouted, as a few scrolls landed atop him and a globe rolled across the floor to the prat’s feet. It would’ve been a shout if Geoffrey, the ancient librarian, hadn’t been just a few meters away.

“Ex-cuse me?” The prat, it turned out, was blonde-haired and blue-eyed and spoke in an absurdly posh accent. Merlin considered him. His suit was grey with a faint stripe and his ascot and waistcoat were red. He wore no jewels, like some gents had taken to, just a few silver and gold rings on each hand. Like Merlin, he didn’t wear a hat, but his suit was obviously of the finest quality. He wore a pair of pistols in shoulder holsters and, it seemed, a sword of some kind across his back.

Inexplicably, Merlin noticed that his shirt and his teeth were remarkably white.

“Excuse me?” the prat repeated. It wasn’t a question, really. He glared down at Merlin, who noticed he had brought with him an entourage, or sorts. They, too, were large and rather muscled, which Merlin found funny, in a way.

“You’re excused,” he replied, picking himself off the floor and noticing he was, in fact, a bit taller than the newcomer. He began to speak again, but Gwen was faster.

“Come on, Merlin. I’ve yet to show you the alchemy section. You’ll fall in love with the field lab.” She pulled on his arm.

The blonde young man bristled at being ignored. “Yes, get out of the way,” he said loudly. “Some of us are trying to walk here.”

“Oh, let it be, Pendragon,” said Gwen. “No one is getting in your precious way.”

Merlin watched his—Pendragon’s—jaw tense at Gwen’s words. His blue eyes went steely, but he said nothing, just stared at Merlin in a menacing manner, as Gwen led Merlin away.

 

Why Merlin should think of meeting Arthur Pendragon on this particular afternoon, many months later, was perplexing. Not perplexing, Merlin thought, but maybe odd. Not that it mattered. What mattered was Gwen pulling him by the arm to the left through the library until they reached the oldest parts. Merlin had stood with a hand on a stone arch and felt the old magics within him stirring. It was intoxicating, to feel them reaching out to him. It made Gwen uncomfortable, he could tell, so he mostly came alone, now. Like this cold day in February, with the wind and ice that remained in his hair.

After walking up and down a few staircases and around several secretive corners, Merlin came to the small chamber he considered his own. The books here were worn, leather-bound, and musty. With a whisper and a flick of his wrist, Merlin’s eyes glowed and the gaslights lit behind their stained glass sconces, illuminating the room in colorful, dappled light. Merlin was not alone.

In the far corner of the chamber, Arthur Pendragon sat slumped on the stone floor, neck bent, suit askew. Asleep. Merlin huffed.  
“Wake up, Pendragon,” he said, softer than he intended. Arthur didn’t move.

Merlin pulled off his knapsack and pulled out the grimoire he’d been reading through, and then dropped it with a bam on the long wooden table. There was no response.

Merlin stepped over to the sleeping boy. Man. Boy. Merlin shrugged. He prodded his booted foot with a wary nudge. Then he noticed the blood.


	2. Trained to Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finds Merlin infuriating, too, and finds himself in danger (frequently).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is coming along on this adventure with me and these boys!  
> Once again, please forgive any typos.

Arthur Pendragon enjoyed a rather charmed life. The sole son and heir of Uther, the Duke of Camelot, Arthur had been raised to expect the very best life could offer.

Camelot was largely agrarian, but for the castle and surrounding town. As a boy, Arthur befriended the airship captain who kept the route from Camelot to London, and he was free to make the trip whenever he was able. Uther frowned upon him hiding from his tutor and governess, but always seemed a bit proud of his initiative. Arthur enjoyed watching the clouds part as _The Pelican_ cut through the sky, but he was always most at home on horseback in the woods.

 

So it was that on Arthur’s seventh birthday, he had “borrowed” his father’s new stallion and ridden out with a crossbow and his sword, certain he would shoot or stab something that would make his father nod his head in begrudging approval.

The morning had been clear and cold, and Arthur could feel the moisture frost under his nose. He wore his new red cloak, with a Pendragon coat of arms stitched onto its breast, and Arthur felt he could defy the December chill. He was seven now, and a seven-year-old could do anything, especially if he was a Pendragon.

When the boar charged, Arthur was not surprised; he knew he was powerful and it was natural that beasts would test him. He shot two bolts into its side from horseback, then lunged at it, sword drawn, to finish it off.

Hours later, Arthur reentered Camelot’s gates with his prize: one dislocated shoulder, two black eyes, a nasty gash in his leg, and a dead boar. From that day on, Uther doubled his son’s training with a new sword master, added marksmanship lessons, and demanded his tutors devote themselves to training Arthur to slay anything in his path—especially creatures of the old religion. He had been trained to fight since birth, but now he would be trained to kill.

 

Camelot had known fame as a cultural landmark for centuries. The druids sent their best to study with the priests living just outside the city walls. Historians came to study its vaults and library. Travelers came for curiosity. Now, Uther ensured its knights surpassed any in the empire. As a great warrior himself, a generation of fighters knew him by reputation and were honored to come train his knights and his son.

As the years passed, Arthur learned again and again that no matter who came to fight him, he had superior training, equipment, and, likely, natural talent.

He also learned that most things in the forest were trying to kill him, as were half the visiting lords. The other half were trying to marry him to their daughters. By the time Arthur had finished his schooling, most of his father’s peers had sent their sons to Camelot to learn at his side.

Most days, Arthur was content to consider them friends, but other days he grew weary of their attitudes. There were exceptions, naturally, but far too many “friends” seemed quick to laugh at another’s mistake as if that would ingratiate them to him.

“Maybe there’s a reason they think you’ll appreciate that,” Gwaine pointed out one day as they rode back from a hunt.

“What?” Arthur scoffed, brows furrowed.

Gwaine shrugged. “Maybe it’s you,” and he kicked his horse into a canter as they rode into the lower town.

Later that evening, Arthur was considering Gwaine’s words as he walked along a creek just south of the city’s outer walls. The water had been high the week before, and Arthur absently tallied the tracks he could detect in the muddy bank: another turkey, a doe and her fawn, raccoons, something with enormous claws…

He paused and looked closer, was kneeling to investigate, when he heard giggling. Immediately, he reached for his sword and loosened his holster.

Arthur saw Guinevere first, naturally. He was stealthy and quick and alert. He watched her pick at a small crop of purple flowers and couldn’t help but frown.

Guinevere was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful girls Arthur had ever seen. She had been friends with his half-sister, Morgana, for ages, and she always seemed to be disgusted with him about something. Last time they had seen each other she was mad that he ran into some idiot boy she was with. An idiot who had been standing just inside the library doors so that _anyone_ entering the building would have run into him, especially if they walked with any sort of purpose—and naturally, Arthur did.

 

The idiot, it seemed, was also with Gwen in the forest, and she handed him a sprig of the purple flowers. Who was this boy? He looked a mess. He wore brown trousers and grey boots with an absurd amount of buckles and straps. His jacket was cast on the ground and his waistcoat was undone. The “white” of his shirt was an embarrassing hint of what it had been at some point. He wore a tattered blue scarf and his sleeves rolled up. Disheveled, Arthur thought, looking down at his own fine hunting gear; the soft leather was utilitarian but comfortable and rather decent looking, he was happy to say. Or think. And surely his hair had never looked as amiss as the dark mop on this _boy_. Who Gwen so clearly seemed to enjoy the company of without appearing disgusted, or even disapproving.

“Cockatrice,” Arthur said aloud.

At this noise, the _boy_ immediately turned to him, blue eyes piercing and accusatory. “I beg your pardon?”

Arthur looked between the two of them and pointed down. “Cockatrice. Return to the city, now.”

The _boy_ glared at him. “I’m not one of your lackeys, Pendragon, you can’t order me about.”

“Do I _know_ you?” Arthur asked as Gwen exclaimed, “Merlin!” and put her hands on her hips.

The boy—Merlin—looked him up and down and appeared nonplussed. “No, you don’t _know_ me.”

“Your name is Merlin. I know that. And I know these are tracks of a cockatrice.”

Merlin just looked at him with challenge in his eyes, saying nothing.

“A cockatrice. It has the head of a bird," he gestured, "and legs like a dragon with these great big—”

“I know what a cockatrice is,” Merlin cut him off. “I’m not—”

“As stupid as you look?” Arthur cut him off, back. Merlin sputtered, grasping for words.

“It is stupid to stand here with a cockatrice about. You should take Guinevere and return to the city before you’re both hurt.” Gwen, he noticed, seemed to blush a bit. She was probably embarrassed for her friend.

“I can certainly keep us away from some dumb cockatrice,” Merlin argued.

“No,” Arthur insisted, “you can’t.” They approached each other along the stream-bed, glaring. “Just how do you plan to defend the lady against a monstrous beast?”

Merlin sucked in a breath, ready to explain, vehemently and with demonstrations, but was cut off again.

“You’ve no weapon and are totally unprepared for combat. You’ve basically no musculature whatsoever, obviously, so even if it were a _man_ you were fighting, you’d be completely hopeless.”

“I don’t need weapons you ignorant prat! I—”

This time it wasn’t Arthur that cut Merlin off, but was a screeching roar. Arthur drew his sword in one hand and pistol in the other.

“Get back to the city, now!” Arthur bellowed. He looked over to Gwen, who was picking up Merlin’s jacket. Merlin, meanwhile, was standing his ground, the fool. He stood less than a step away from Arthur, staring at his pistol, then turned to Gwen and said, “Hide.”

“You hide!” Arthur fumed. He pointed his pistol the direction of the cockatrice’s roar and braced himself, and it came over the ridge, charging.

“Bloody thing knew right where we are,” Merlin muttered, and Arthur grunted, aiming. He pulled the hammer back, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

The result was unexpected. As the pistol fired, Arthur heard Merlin whisper something under his breath and watched as the spark from the pistol transformed into a ball of flame that billowed through the air like smoke or fog at the cockatrice, which reared back in fear and then turned and fled.

“You idiot!” Arthur yelled.

“What?!” Merlin exclaimed. Obviously, he was shocked Arthur was outraged by his idiocy.

“You did that, didn’t you? You have magic.”

“No, you dollop-head, that fire just appeared like that. Of course I have magic.”

“You absolute idiot!”

“Oh, you wanted to be eaten by that thing?”

“Cockatrice! No, I wanted to kill it.”

“I _know_ it’s a cockatrice, and by yourself? You think you could kill that thing by yourself? And think _I’m_ an idiot.”

I _know_ you’re an idiot. You scared it off!”

“You ungrateful—that thing—”

“Cockatrice.”

“I know! Would have torn you apart. And me, too, and Gwen!”

He spun around suddenly. Gwen was sitting, peacefully, watching the argument, with a little half-smile on her lips. Lips that looked rather pink today, Arthur noticed. She looked at him and didn’t look disgusted, just amused, and then she looked at Merlin and smiled, broadly. This would not do.

“You are an idiot and a menace. That beast is now free to run about killing villagers, and who knows when we will next catch it. I would’ve taken it apart with one strike, something your magic,” he said the word with contempt, “will never be capable of.”

Merlin looked shocked and outraged and, truthfully, a little hurt. His blue eyes were piercing once more as they met Arthur’s. “You know nothing about my magic,” he said, his voice low. “He took his jacket from Gwen and together they walked away.

 

Later, Arthur learned his bullet had struck the beast’s chest and, admittedly, the fire had hurt it as well. In its weakened state, two farmers were able to kill it in the next village with little damage done.

 

The weather had turned colder, and Arthur had avoided speaking to Merlin. He had seen him, though, and heard of him. Through Gwen, it seemed Morgana had met the man, too. Morgana seemed to be quite taken with him, even inviting him to dinner one evening at the family table.

As the duke, Uther kept quarters in the castle. Generations before, it would’ve been the seat of his kingdom, not just a duchy, and that truth never sat well with him. Consequently, Uther kept a full staff and entertained lavishly, never missing an opportunity to show off. Morgana had invited Merlin to dinner and his uncle, Gaius, who Arthur had known as his father’s friend, even if Uther did hold people in trade in somewhat lesser esteem.

It was a frigid night, and Arthur wore his warmest wool suit with a thick red ascot that was almost a scarf. The castle tapestries couldn’t fully prevent the draught, and the fires were roaring. Uther nodded approvingly as Morgana, dressed in a heavy velvet gown, ushered Gaius and Merlin to the table.

“Morgana tells me your nephew is a powerful sorcerer,” Uther said during the fish course. His eyes narrowed as he looked past Gaius to Merlin, who had been carrying on an animated conversation with Morgana about someone named Will, a pig, and some corncobs. Arthur set his fork down and met Morgana’s eye. Their father’s distrust and abhorrence of magic was known—even he hadn’t disliked Merlin (dislikable as he may be) enough to alert Uther to his presence. Then again… Powerful sorcerer?

Arthur scoffed. “Your grace, I’ve seen Merlin use his magic and I can say with confidence it is of no great power.”

He avoided Merlin’s direct glare, but noticed the sudden set of his jaw. Gaius set a hand on Merlin’s arm and his eyebrow tilted up as he watched Arthur in that way he had. He schooled his features before looking back at Uther.

“Your son is right, your grace. Merlin is from a small village and has only used his magic for small household tasks before coming to Camelot.”

Uther looked at Morgana, whose eyes were wide but defiant. “What is the truth?” he asked.

“Father,” Morgana used her sweetest voice, “I said the seers foretold a great warlock coming to Camelot. I did not say for sure it was Merlin.”

Uther stared at Merlin for a long time, and then looked back at Arthur, who shrugged and shook his head in dismissal, and Uther called for the next course.

Dinner continued as Merlin told a story of his mother, a bull, and some grain alcohol that had even Arthur smiling, despite himself.

 

The next day, the weather was terrible. Arthur felt the chill and damp as he followed the winding corridors through the castle to the western tower. It was warmer at the tower’s top, which made no sense to him until he considered its inhabitants. Despite his distrust of magic, Uther understood its benefits and allowed Camelot to continue its presence as a makeshift Druid capital. In the western tower lived Galapas, a wise seer, and his apprentice, Freya. Arthur knew Morgana frequently visited Galapas, and therefore assumed he was the seer she mentioned.

“Greetings, young Pendragon,” said Galapas, looking into a strange green fire behind a tarnished hearth screen. “I am happy to learn you have met the warlock, Merlin.” Freya handed Arthur a cup of mulled wine. He sipped it and was immediately at ease, warmth spreading to his core.

“How do you know I’ve met Merlin?” Arthur asked, knowing it was a rather stupid question, considering.

“The god shows me many things in the fire, Arthur.”

“Does he show you that Merlin is an idiot?” he asked. Freya hid a smile behind her hand and looked into the fire, like Galapas. Arthur rolled his eyes.

Galapas smiled, too. “In many ways, yes, he does show me that. And your idiocy, too.”

Arthur’s laugh was a snort. “Okay, so what is this about him being a powerful warlock?”

“It is only truth, like everything the god shows. Just as he shows me that you will be a great leader of men, who is wise and benevolent.” He paused. “If you can learn.”

“Learn what? My education is complete, at this point.”

“You must learn that you and Merlin are destined…” he trailed off. “No, I cannot tell you. You must learn it yourself.”

“But you’re a seer. My father keeps you here because you can tell me.”

“Your father keeps me here because he fears my power and what it speaks for him. I choose to stay because of Freya and you and, finally, Merlin.” Freya opened a book on her lap and began to gingerly flip through its crinkled pages. Beside her, a harp stood on the floor that seemed to vibrate and hum.

“I don’t understand what Merlin could possibly have to do with me, and especially my destiny.”

“And that is why you are not yet a great leader of men who is wise and benevolent.”

“I despise riddles, Galapas.”

“I know.” He turned his head suddenly, looking back into the fire, drawing in a deep breath and nodding. “You must go now. Find Merlin and you will draw one step closer to understanding.”

 

Arthur knew Merlin liked a few things in particular: pretty girls like Gwen and Morgana, farm work like he was so amused by last night, wandering about the forest like a daft hermit, caves--though he wasn’t certain how he knew that, and staring up at the library atrium like an idiot who wouldn’t get out of the way. It was cold and wet, so he decided to seek Merlin first in the library.

 

On any other day, Arthur would have taken the crooked path from the castle to the library. He preferred being out-of-doors as a rule. But the chill had hit him as he climbed the stairs down from the western tower, so he took a different path. Arthur knew all of the castle’s passages and tunnels, as he’d grown up using them to hide and escape from his tutors. He pushed through the back of a cobweb-filled broom closet, and tapped the corner of a trapdoor on the floor, causing it to spring open. He took a few steps down the ladder before jumping down onto the smoothly worn stone path. This part of the tunnel system was older than the rest, and it was riddled with tight turns that hid dead-ends and loops. Arthur lit a torch, as this part of the tunnels also remained unlit by the gaslight system his father had ordered installed years earlier. It was a labyrinth to those who were unfamiliar with it, but Arthur was confident, he fixed his eyes ahead and stepped purposefully through the dimly lit walkway. He took three steps before he fell.

As he slid, Arthur thought how odd it was, that the stones here should be wet; usually this tunnel was bone dry. Then the torch dropped beside him and the wet began to light. It was oil; someone had recklessly dropped a lamp, he guessed, and not cleaned up. He jumped up, scurrying away from the immediate conflagration, which seemed to burn white and red and blinded him with its brightness.

He turned and covered his face, and as he did, he felt the presence of the other person. He looked up, but they seemed to be standing _in_ the fire, and his spotted vision couldn’t make out any distinguishing characteristics.

“What?” he barely gasped out as a dagger sliced through the air, completing the ambush. Its effect was immediate. Arthur fell back against the wall, feeling the unnatural burn. He’d been stabbed before, bit, gouged, and pummeled into unconsciousness by his tutors, friends, and beasts. This was no normal wound. He heard footsteps as the attacker fled. He tried to stand, but his legs were weakened, so he half-crawled through the tunnels the most direct route he knew to the library, which would require no climbing.

At the tunnel’s end, he crawled through the trapdoor into the library’s secret room, a little cloister that few people could find even when searching for it. He pulled himself to the table, but had to lean back into the corner, weary. His last thought before unconsciousness was that it could be days before anyone was able to find him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galapas, for the uninitiated, is one of my favorite characters from Mary Stewart.


	3. You Found Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and a new friend seek a cure for Arthur's wound.

It took less than a second for Merlin to reach Arthur’s side, and as he stripped the bloody clothing down to his waist, Merlin told himself it was because he valued his friendship with Morgana and Gwen. While they both readily admitted Arthur was infuriating and entitled, they seemed to possess an absurd amount of affection for him. Merlin wasn’t sure why, though his thoughts may have returned to Arthur’s casual dismissal of his abilities the night before, the way his knuckles had been white as he gripped his goblet after assuaging Uther’s fears.

“Not calling me an idiot now, I notice,” Merlin grumbled under his breath as he pulled off his scarf and used it to stanch the bleeding. The wound itself wasn’t deep, so it didn’t follow that Arthur was unconscious. Unless, of course, he had a limited pain tolerance. And as humourous as Merlin thought that would be, he doubted it, looking the man up and down.

No, arse or not, Arthur Pendragon was strong and brave, and probably stoic. Merlin’s breath quickened.

“Well, Pendragon, it looks like we’re doing this then. Just, well. Don’t fidget.” He looked at the wound, unsure. Despite his work with Gaius, healing spells were not Merlin’s specialty, especially without a poultice or other potion. “ _Þurhhæle licsar min_ ,” he incanted, holding his hand over Arthur’s side. A rush of heat flowed from his hand to the wound and the bleeding stopped.

Merlin placed his hand on Arthur’s cheek and tilted his head. “Arthur?” he asked warily. “Can you hear me?”

There was no response. “Great. Just brilliant.” He glared at his grimoire and with a flash of gold it flew back into his knapsack, which he pulled back over his shoulder in a huff. He looked down at Arthur and heaved a sigh, on principle. Then he tied his scarf around Arthur’s waist and redid his shirt buttons. The blood was fresh but Arthur’s hair was dry, so he’d clearly been in the library for some time before being stabbed, or had come in through the tunnels.

Merlin thought Arthur didn’t seem the type to frequent the library—and hadn’t seen much of him there since that first time—so he assumed it was the latter scenario.

Carrying Arthur back through the tunnels seemed a bad idea, especially if there was a mad assassin about. So Merlin did the only thing possible: he lifted Arthur like a princess and carried him through the winding corridors to the atrium.

Halfway there, he was already tired. For a skinny bloke, Arthur was heavy, especially in a rush. He turned a corner and ran square into a body, nearly dropping Arthur in the process.

“Bloody hell!” the body exclaimed. He grasped at Arthur and kept him from striking the floor. Merlin frantically checked for new bleeding, trying to ignore a headache.

“Thanks,” he mumbled at the man, preparing to hoist Arthur back up.

“Hold on, mate. Let me help. What’s happened, then?”

Merlin heaved a breath. “He’s been stabbed. I’ve tried to stop the bleeding but…” he gestured at the blood. “Need to get him to Gaius.”

“Alright then,” the man said, and he pushed his arm under Arthur’s shoulder. “Let’s on with it.”

Merlin nodded and sighed in appreciation, hoping the message was conveyed, and the man smiled a bit as it was.

 

Moving Arthur to Gaius’ chambers was not pretty. His feet dragged behind them in a manner that wouldn’t be good for his boots. But, Merlin found that the stranger was exceedingly strong and didn’t complain about Arthur’s weight or the biting cold as they crossed Camelot to Gaius’ quarters across from the south side of the castle.

Gaius’ chambers were warm already, but Merlin shoved everything aside to set a cot by the radiator for Arthur. They laid him out and Merlin wasted no time stripping him to the waist. The stranger stepped back and watched as Gaius frowned and set about examining the wound. It had turned an unnatural grey colour.

“He’s been poisoned.” He went to flip through a book. “Were you with him when it happened?”

“No,” Merlin answered. “Neither was—I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”

“Lancelot du Lac.”

“Merlin Emrys. I’ve not seen you around.” Merlin thought absently that Lancelot had a face that would be remembered, perhaps as much as Arthur, even.

“I’ve just arrived in Camelot.”

“In foul weather,” Merlin said. “It’s usually not this bad, even in February.”

“I can’t say I mind, as long as I have success in my endeavor.”

“Which is?”’

“To become a knight. I’ve heard nothing since childhood but stories of Camelot and the glory of Uther and now, his son Arthur.”

“And so you’ve come to seek training, to fight at his side?”

“If he will have me, yes. I just need to find a way to beg an audience or introduction.”

Merlin and Gaius shared a look, Merlin’s eyes twinkling a bit. “Well, Lancelot du Lac, I think you’ve found a way to ingratiate yourself, without even trying.”

Lancelot looked confused. He looked down at Arthur, taking in the cut of his trousers, his boots, and how fine his shirt had been before being ruined by blood. “Surely not,” he said, paling.

“Oh I assure you. I wish it was someone else, believe me. We may have to actually talk to him.”

“If someone has stabbed—and poisoned—the marquess, we must find them,” Lance declared. Merlin noted the sureness of his stance and, for the first time, at least three pistols on his person, a pair of katanas (interesting choice) and a bunch of what looked like scouting equipment: binoculars, compass, and various other bits Merlin wasn’t familiar with.

“Wait. We?”

“Naturally. It’s evident you’re close with Arthur, or anyway care for him a great deal. You’ve not stopped shaking since I’ve seen you.”

Merlin sputtered, looking for words. “I do not—certainly do not— _care a great deal_ for Arthur Pendragon.”

Gaius turned a raised eyebrow to Merlin. “Do something useful, Merlin.”

“Yes, Gaius.” He proceeded to flip through a book himself, until Gaius exclaimed.

“Of course. Merlin, go fetch Galapas from the west tower.

 

For the third time, Merlin ran across the castle grounds, once again soaking his hair. This time, without his scarf or an extra body to hold, he was chilled to the bone by the time he reached the western castle doors. As Gaius’ nephew, the guards knew to let him pass with little more than a mention of Galapas.

He took the stairs to the tower two or three at a time and burst through the door without knocking.

Freya, Galapas’ apprentice, sat by the fire in his place. She turned to him and one corner of her mouth lifted into a smile.

She had sad eyes, Merlin thought, but this was not the time to dwell on that.

“Where is Galapas?”

“In the lower town with an ill shepherd from an outlying village,” she responded. She glanced into the fire. “He won’t be back soon. I will accompany you.” As she met his gaze, Merlin felt a twisting in his gut and a quickening. She picked up a leather-bound case and handed it to him. He placed it in his knapsack and they set off.

By the time Merlin and Freya reached Gaius’ chambers, his legs were jelly and he sat down and panted.

Arthur was feverish and the grey had spread across his gut.

“This is druid work, is it not, Freya?” asked Gaius.

She leaned close to Arthur and smelled his wound, then placed one hand on each side of it. Her eyes began to tear up, and then she let go. She nodded.

“What must be done?”

“There is a root that can be used as an antidote. You must find it, if you wish him to live.”

Lancelot stood. “Where is it?”

She looked at him. “You will need magic. Merlin must go.”  
Merlin pushed his wet hair back and sighed. “Of course. Where is it?”

 

It was afternoon when Merlin saddled his horse to ride out. Lance rode his up to the stable from where he was staying in the lower town.

“You don’t have to come,” Merlin stated.

Lance pulled a face. “Sure I do. Magic can’t protect you from everything.” They both pulled heavy cloaks over their damp clothes and trotted out at a brisk pace, then kicked the horses into gallops once they crossed the second city gate.

Merlin and Lancelot rode with what his late uncle Ambrosius had called Caesar speed. They rode into the night, using lights cast by Merlin to show the way through the trees. When they reached the tree, Merlin saw Freya was right: they would know the one.

It stood on the shore of the Lake of Avalon and reached farther into the sky that Merlin had seen a tree grow. On its branches was a heavy fruit, ripe despite the season, red like an apple but soft like a peach. It smelled like nothing Merlin had witnessed.

Lance looked around a bit wildly. “I don’t think I should be here.”

“It’s okay, just stay with me,” Merlin said. “And help me get this root." They dug at the tree’s base and Lance shaved a bit off with his knife. Merlin pressed the soil back over the root and felt it begin to heal where they had cut. He pressed his forehead, momentarily, to the tree, and then looked back at Lance. His pistol was drawn, and his knife held for action.

Between them and the horses stood a pair of bandits, armed to the teeth.

The fight went fast. Fast enough that Merlin could only watch as Lancelot disarmed the first with a shot to the arm and kicked the second in the chest. He fell on his back and rolled to the side as the other jumped on his back, using his good arm to grab Lancelot by the neck. Lance used his momentum to flip him over at the second bandit, who stumbled backwards and fell into the lake. He didn’t come up.

For a moment, all three of them stopped and stared at the water, which was unnaturally still.

“ _Wáce ierlic!_ ” Merlin said, directing his magic to send the bandit flying into the lake.

Like his partner, he did not resurface. Lancelot placed his hand on his chest and shivered.

 

As they rode back, Merlin looked over at Lancelot in the early morning light. “Thank you. You saved my life back there.”

“And you saved mine.”

“Then we are indebted to each other? Or just even?”

“I find I don’t mind being indebted to you. Any man who would take this journey for someone he claims to not care for—I cannot think what he would do for those he loves. Perhaps travel beyond the gates of Avalon to the afterlife, like Orpheus himself.”

Merlin rode on in silence, thinking of Arthur, bleeding on the library floor. It had felt wrong to see him thus. It had felt wrong in his soul.

 

They kept the horses as fast as they dared until they reached Gaius’ door. Guinevere, tired and dusty, came out to meet them.

“Merlin!” she exclaimed. “Thank the gods.” She held his reins as he dismounted and looked up at Lancelot, who had gone completely still, looking back at her.

Merlin did not wait for an explanation. He strode in, exhausted but with a renewed surge of adrenaline. Uther Pendragon sat by Arthur’s side and Gaius stood nearby, boiling a flask over a flame.

“You have the root?” he asked. Merlin pulled it out of his waistcoat pocket, flinging aside the cloak. Freya, he noticed, sat gazing into the fire again, this time warming her hands with clear eyes.

“You have succeeded, Emrys,” she said, meeting his gaze. Her smile warmed him to the core. “I shall tell Galapas. He will want to speak with you.”

Merlin nodded, watching as Gaius mixed the antidote, chanting, “ _Seópan ærest wearð feasceaft funden. Denum æfter dom. Dreamleas gebad he gewann langsum_.” The flask he held flashed red and the aroma of the mysterious fruit filled the room.

Uther, too, was watching. His face was pallid and his posture sunken as he looked at Gaius, shaking his head a bit.

“I know, your grace, and if there was any other way…”

“What did you do to it?”

“I had to enchant it for efficacy. The poison was also enchanted.”

“Would I could ban sorcery from Camelot for good,” Uther said, voice guttural and foreboding.

Freya watched the fire, her face once more a placid mask. Her eyes were far away and clouded before she closed them.

Uther rose as Gaius tilted the potion into Arthur’s mouth. “I have you to thank for this cure.” He stretched his hand out to Merlin, who shook it, uncertain.

“Yes, your grace. Both me and my friend, Lancelot du Lac, who is recently arrived in Camelot.” He gestured to Lance, who nearly bowed in obsequiousness.

“Your grace,” he said. “It is an honour.”

“Lancelot du Lac. What brings you to my city?”

“I seek a place among the knights of Camelot, your grace. To fight alongside the marquess.”

“Interesting name, du Lac. You come from the lake country, then?”

“Cumbria, yes.”

“And you have come here, to fight in Camelot, despite centuries of unrest along the wall?”

“I seek a greater foe and mission, yes.”

“You think a greater foe is here, then?”

“Not a foe in Camelot, your grace. I think the war, when it comes, will be fought abroad. And I think Camelot’s knights will be its salvation.”

Uther nodded. He looked back at Arthur, whose colour was returning. “Gaius, send my son to me when he is recovered.” He nodded at Lance, looking him up and down, and left.

Guinevere entered the room at his exit. Her eyes immediately met Lance’s, but she pulled them away, to Arthur. She took up Uther’s seat by his side.

“You made quite the impression,” said Merlin. Lance nodded, watching Gwen take Arthur’s hand. “I take it when we speak of impending war, we’re exaggerating.” Merlin followed Lance’s gaze and quirked an eyebrow. “Gwen, I didn’t think you truly liked that pompous arse.”

Naturally, it was at this moment that Arthur opened his eyes.

“Hello,” Gwen said, her voice soothing and low. “Morgana and I have been so worried. She only just left.”

Arthur looked up at Merlin. “Thank gods… you found me,” he rasped. And without another murmur, he fell back asleep.

Merlin took a half step back and blinked. He looked at Gaius, whose eyebrow was raised (again). He looked at Gwen, who was frowning. He looked at Lance, who was smirking, it appeared. And he looked at Freya, who had resumed scrying in the fire. She shook her head slowly, stood up, and silently left the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance ships it.
> 
> All credit to the Merlin Wikia and its contributors for the spells.
> 
> Also, credit to Mary Stewart for Ambrosius, Caesar speed, Galapas, and fire scrying.


	4. Two of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Arthur learn why he was attacked. Games are played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's rather late, and while I read over it, I fear I'm not seeing the typos. I'll update to fix any as I spot them.

When Arthur woke again, it was dusk. He opened his eyes slowly and took in the softly lit room. It was warm by the cast-iron radiator, and the blankets covering him were soft wool. Above him, brass candelabras had been outfitted with blue bottle glass gaslights. Skylights let in the last embers of twilight, casting amber and cobalt reflections on the lab equipment scattered about. Long tables took up much of the room, filled with bubbling flasks, beakers, and crucibles. Bookshelves lined most of the walls, but their contents were strewn around the room from frequent use. It occurred to Arthur that, despite his many scars and bruises, he’d spent little time in Gaius’ chambers. It was peaceful, in its way.

Merlin stood nearby with his back turned, speaking to someone Arthur didn’t know. His hair was damp like he’d recently bathed. The stranger looked like he needed to.

“Really Lance, you should have a bath and stay the night. Gaius has already said there’s plenty to eat.”

“No, no, there’s no need. I’ve already paid for my tavern room through the week.”

“The Sleeping Dragon?”

“Yes.”

“Trust me, you’ll have more rest here in one night that three at the Sleeping Dragon.” Merlin paused. “Unless you’re… that is…” he trailed off.

“No, you’re right. I had thought to, well, _enjoy_ myself with a companion, but I doubt now I’d be satisfied.”

“Ah! Well, Guinevere is a very beautiful girl, that is true.”

“Woman, Merlin. She is a very beautiful woman.”

At this, Arthur decided to sit up and take a look at “Lance.” His side ached, and he couldn’t completely suppress a groan as he pushed his legs over the edge of the cot.

Merlin spun around, nearly knocking over a tea set and a lamp. “Arthur,” he said, righting it. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, of course, Merlin.”

“Lancelot du Lac, sir, at your service.” Lance introduced himself, giving a little half-bow. Merlin rolled his eyes, Arthur noticed. He glared at him and then met Lancelot’s eye.

“Arthur Pendragon. What service do you offer?”

“I trained to fight at Hadrian’s Wall and am skilled with a blade, bow, or pistol, sir.”

Arthur nodded. “Good. We shall spar first thing tomorrow.”

Merlin scoffed. “No you won’t.” Arthur merely cocked his head to the side in response. Merlin persisted. “Seriously, you’ve been unconscious for more than a day.”

“Don’t be such a girl’s petticoat, Merlin.”

“I—you—what does that even mean?”

“It means, I am conscious now, so we spar in the morning.” Merlin sat down by the cot, shaking his head in exasperation. Arthur glared at him. “You should help, Merlin. It would do you good to get out of the library, maybe get some meat on your bones.”

Lance chuckled, and Merlin gave him an irritated look. He shrugged. “I guess I’d better get sleep tonight after all.”

Arthur pulled himself up to standing.

Lance looked at Merlin. “I’ll gather my things and be back within the hour.” Merlin nodded and watched him leave.

Arthur took a step and winced.

“I told you—”

“Merlin. Just, be quiet.” Arthur stood over him. He looked around the room, pensive. “The wound wasn’t deep. Why does it burn so?” He sat in a chair beside Merlin.

“You were poisoned. Probably the blade. It was enchanted with Druid magic.”

Arthur nodded. “I remember thinking it unnatural, how it felt when I was cut.”

Merlin gave him a penetrating look. “What else can you remember?” He took up the tea kettle, frowned, and looked at it with eyes bright as starlight before pouring them each a cup.

The tea was nearly scalding and tasted of citrus and spice, with a hint of sweetness. “I was looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Galapas said I should seek you out. Something about destiny and leadership… It made little sense.”

“Standard Galapas.”

“Indeed. I took the tunnels to the library.”

“How did you know…”

“You were there? No idea. Probably Galapas. Anyway, some idiot—some _other_ idiot—had spilled oil in the tunnel.”

Merlin looked at him as if he wanted to be cross about the idiot comment but was too intrigued.

“I slipped, and my torch lit the oil. As it burned, I was attacked.”

“Could you see the attacker? Anything?”

“No. All I could think of was how it burned and that I needed to get to the library. I know that tunnel goes to a hidden room in the library; I’m surprised you found me.”

“How do you know it was me?”

Arthur stopped. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“I don’t know.” He felt lost, unbalanced.

“Anyway, it isn’t a hidden room.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It clearly is not.”

“Clearly?”

“Yes, I’m there frequently.”

“You’re right then, and I was mistaken. _Clearly_ , an idiot can find it.”

“An idiot who found _you_ there, then.”

“Merlin! Gods above!”

Merlin smirked a bit and took a gulp of his tea, then made a horrified face and blew into his cup. Arthur couldn’t withhold the shout of laughter. Merlin’s cheeks were a bit pink when he stopped, as were his ears. Arthur started to comment on it, but stopped himself, shaking his head.

“So why did they attack you in such a way?”

“You mean stabbing me, alone, in a remote tunnel?”

“They didn’t stab you, though. They cut you and let you go.”

“Merlin, you said they poisoned me.”

“Yes, and anywhere else that may be murder. In Camelot, though, it’s just a… Tuesday.”

“Poison is a Tuesday?”

“For you, yes. I’ve spoken to Gaius about you, Arthur. The list of ways you’ve almost died could fill a spellbook.” Merlin paused. “Or maybe you’re just clumsy.”

“Me?” Arthur was taken aback. “You can’t turn around without knocking something over!”

“Okay, fine. Truce. We need to figure out what they really wanted.”

Arthur felt in his pockets. “My money is still here.”

“Okay, so, not money. What about jewels?”

“Jewels? I don’t wear jew—” He stopped suddenly, tapping his chest. “My amulet.” He felt his face fall. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest by a questing beast. It was devastating.

Merlin sat his tea down, sober. “What amulet?”

Arthur took a few deep breaths before answering. “It was my mother’s. A red clockwork dragon.” It had been a locket, but the mechanism had long since broken, and even the craftsmen of Camelot had been unable to repair it. “But why they would want it, I’ve no idea. It isn’t even magical.”

“You called it an amulet.”

“Yes, the red dragon is a symbol of the Pendragons. It was a wedding gift to my mother, but has been in the family for generations, since the Pendragons were kings. Its meaning is more ceremonial,” he dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “But it means a great deal to me. I always keep it on me.”

“Your attacker must have known this.”

“Can you…” Arthur hesitated.

“Can I what?”

“Can you scry? Like Galapas or Freya. Can you see it, in the fire?”

“No just by looking. I’m not really trained as a seer; my visions are more selective. Just what the gods will. Or with specific spells, sometimes.”

“Then it’s gone.” Arthur’s loss was overwhelming, but he smiled at Merlin to hide the sentiment.

“Oh Arthur.” Merlin reached out and grasped his arm. “We will find a way. Come. Show me where you fell.”

 

The night was clear and frigid, and Merlin’s and Arthur’s breaths puffed in the lamplight as they crossed the castle grounds. There was a stillness, and though they could hear the raucous noises from the town below, their boots seemed loud on the gravel and cobblestones.

“We were supposed to send you to your father when you woke,” Merlin said softly.

“He can wait. Better to have answers,” Arthur responded. His father always saw him after he was wounded, if only to remind him weakness was a shortcoming no Pendragon could afford. His side still ached, and Merlin watched him askance. He had loaned him one of his shirts and it was too tight. He felt as if his arms and chest were going to rip the seams. Merlin had given him an odd look when he pulled it on over the bandages, like he was slightly pained. It occurred to him that Merlin probably had few shirts and therefore worried it would be lost.

“I’ll send you my tailor,” Arthur said as they approached the castle. “He’ll make you a few shirts to replace this one, which I imagine is a bit… stretched.” He looked down at himself.

Merlin’s eyes twinkled in the lamp light. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I imagine so.”

 

The tunnel was black and stunk. Merlin lifted a lantern and said, “ _Bryne_.” Arthur watched the gold flash in his eyes and took a deep breath as the tunnel was lit.

Arthur had been around magic his whole life, but few sorcerers kept company with him. Even fewer seemed able to cast spells without a second thought. Arthur wondered if Merlin was aware how much more laborious it was for other sorcerers. Powerful warlock, he thought. Perhaps it was true.

And as he though this, Merlin took a step and his feet flew up in front of him. “No!” Arthur yelled at the lantern, thinking of the fire. It froze in the air, hanging above Merlin. Merlin’s eyes were gold again, and Arthur had to tear his eyes away from them (it was just a bit fascinating; a novelty) to reach out and take hold of the lantern.

Merlin’s eyes returned to their natural blue.

“How did you do that?” Arthur whispered.

“It’s slippery just there,” Merlin answered. And then he dropped down again, on his knees this time. He crept forward, running his hands in front of him until he stopped short. He held his hand up to the light. “A-ha!”

“What?”

“There’s _always_ something left behind.” In his hand, Arthur saw a long, blonde hair. “Not one of yours, I think.”

“And what does that tell us?”

“Absolutely nothing!”

Arthur thought Merlin seemed far too happy about absolutely nothing.

“But if we use the right spell and the right ingredients, it may reveal all sorts of things.”

“Do you know such a spell?”

Merlin frowned. “No, I’ll need a grimoire.” His face lit up. “And I know just who has it.”

Arthur groaned. “Again?”

 

Galapas sat by the tower window as they entered, plucking at his harp. “You come together this time.” He looked outside. “It is late.”

Freya sat at the table, shuffling a deck of tarot.

Across from her, the table was set for them with ham and mulled wine. Arthur had not realized how hungry he was, and he did not wait to dig in. “I thank you, my lady Freya, and apologize for the late hour.” She smiled at him and turned over a card, the Knight of Pentacles. She smiled wider.

Merlin also sat, but looked at the card deck with apprehension. “Freya, what are you doing?”

Freya shrugged and sat the upturned card aside. “Just playing.” Galapas exhaled a laugh.

“A game indeed. Parlor tricks, Merlin, as you well know.” He waved his hand in the air and the scent of jasmine filled the room.

“So what does it mean, that card?” asked Arthur.

Merlin looked at it. “You are used to comfort and wealth. Maybe burdened by it.”

“But that’s—” Arthur stopped. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “You just turned it over without using magic, so it is a game, though.”

“How do you know I used no magic?” Freya asked.

“I’ve watched, er, seen Merlin do magic. His eyes light up with— it’s unmistakable. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Freya smiled kindly. “They do light up.” She looked at Merlin and Arthur drew in a breath. That look had substance and understanding and Knowing. Merlin met her gaze, fully and with pride. The gaslights flickered and cast shadows over his cheekbones. She turned over another card. The Magician.

Merlin laughed. “Okay then.” He slid the deck across the table and plucked a card. The Sun. He smiled broadly. “I see great things for you, my lady.”

Freya leaned back and sighed. “Perhaps. But it is a lonely card,” she said.

Merlin cocked his head to the side. “Is it?” he asked. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Freya blushed and took a sip of her wine. Arthur cleared his throat, staring Merlin down.

“That isn’t why we’re here, however.” He watched Merlin frown at him and pluck another card from the deck, which he looked at but didn’t turn over. His brow creased as he studied at it and he drew another, frowning even more. He looked over at Freya, who was watching him closely, and turned over another card, displayed. Three of Cups. Her eyes went to the cards he held.

“What does that one mean?” Arthur asked.

“We’re going to be great friends, Arthur Pendragon,” she answered. She turned over another card. The Tower. “And change is coming to us, soon.”

Galapas spoke from the window. “You came for a spell, Merlin, yes?”

Merlin stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in the process. “Yes, Galapas. Of location.” Galapas sat aside his harp and gestured for Merlin to come to him.

As he did, Arthur turned over the two cards Merlin left on the table. The Two of Cups. Freya’s eyes widened. The Lovers. She leaned back and stared at Arthur. Her eyes flashed and the cards returned to the deck. She nodded and looked sad. If she noticed the question on Arthur’s face, she ignored it.

 

Galapas rose and took the hair from Merlin to an overstuffed desk. He opened drawer after drawer and pulled out powders while Merlin took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. His arms were pale and wiry, Arthur thought, but his hands had a certain articulation that was fascinating. His long fingers undid his cufflinks and placed them in his breast pocket. He absently brushed his hair back from his brow, and Arthur thought how tired he looked.

“Merlin,” he said in a softer voice than he intended. Merlin turned and met his gaze. Arthur took a sip. “We can do this tomorrow. You are exhausted.”

Merlin opened a grimoire and with a flash of his eyes the pages flipped at his unspoken command. “I’m fine,” he said and yawned.

Galapas turned with an iron bowl in his hands. “Ready, then?”

Arthur yawned back, and stood to watch the magicians work.

Merlin sat the bowl on the table and whispered, “ _Bæl on bryne_.” His eyes flashed and a strange purple flame lit in the bowl. It popped with blue sparks. As Arthur watched, the flame seemed to grow. Merlin chanted, “ _Ábeþece_ _ágniend_ _hær._ _Áwréon innan_ _æledfýr!_ ” At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then Arthur could see the image of a woman with flaxen hair.

“Morgause,” hissed Galapas.

In the fire, they watched Morgause take Arthur’s amulet and set it around her neck. She looked victorious. Arthur was filled with rage.

“That amulet,” Galapas said. “It’s what she took?”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

“Merlin, Arthur,” Galapas looked at each of them. “You _must_ recover that amulet. It is of the utmost importance that Morgause not use it.”

“Use it for what? It’s broken. It always has been.”

“It is not broken, but it has not been used in centuries. You cannot let Morgause be the one to use it.”

“What do you mean?”

“That amulet is a key. You must not let it be used.”

“Okay…” Arthur looked at Merlin, who appeared just as confused. “How do we stop her? Who is she?”

“Morgause is a witch and the ally of Vortigern. You will find her at his side.”

Merlin put out the fire without a word, nearly an afterthought. His eyes were bright blue and flecked with gold as they met Arthur’s. “Then we shall find Vortigern,” he said.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “We shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for probably butchering the Old English. I tried, but my syntax must be a mess. Credit to the Wiki, once more, for other spells.
> 
> Also, for the curious, a tarot reading combining the Two of Cups and the Lovers is said to represent soulmates. *Sigh* I know, it's a slow, slow burn, but eventually, they'll get somewhere...


	5. The Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin discovers the extent of the threat. Arthur plans a quest.

Merlin felt morning came too soon. He stumbled from his room to find Lance already sitting at the table with Gaius, eating sausages.

“Late night?” asked Gaius.

Merlin nodded, sitting down with a plate.

“I take it you escorted Arthur to his father.”

Merlin took a few bites in silence, watching Gaius watching him. “This sausage is good.”

Gaius said nothing, still watching him.

“What do you know about Vortigern?”

At this, Gaius sat his fork down and made an unpleasant face. Lance raised his eyebrows, watching the exchange. “Why?” Gaius asked.

“Turns out,” Merlin answered, “Vortigern is working with a, uh, witch.”

“Who?”

“Morgause.”

“No,” Gaius breathed, sitting back.

“They are responsible for the attack on Arthur. They’ve taken an amulet.”

“The dragon?”

“You know it?” Merlin asked.

Gaius sat in stunned silence. Lance took a drink and nodded. “What do you intend to do?”

“Galapas says it must be recovered. Arthur and I—”

“ _Arthur and you_?” Lance asked.

“We will go after her. After it.”

“Then I will accompany you.”

“After you spar this morning, I assume.”

“Naturally.” Lance stood and stretched. “And we should head to meet Arthur now.”

“Tell him I’ll meet you awhile later.” He watched Lance strap on his holsters and katanas. He pulled on a brushed black hat and stepped out into the cool morning. Gaius was staring Merlin down when he returned his attention to the table.

“Merlin,” Gaius said, “I don’t think this is what your mother meant when she asked me to tutor you.”

“I know, Gaius, but this is important. It must be. Galapas was so… I don’t know… scared. Urgent. Adamant we recover it. And when Arthur realized it was missing. I’ve not—that is to say—he’s still a prat, but…”

“But you care for him.”

“I think we could perhaps be friends, yes. If Gwen and Morgana are.”

Gaius rose and took an ancient-looking book from a nearby shelf. “The amulet,” he said, turning pages. “I’ve noticed Arthur wearing it before.” He stopped and passed the book to Merlin. “Here. The red dragon and the white dragon are keys to a terrible machine. Morgause and Vortigern must seek the red dragon key for this. I had hoped no one knew…”

The images in the book were terrible. It was a siege engine, or sorts. Larger than some airships and taller than five men, it stood, illustrated beside a castle that could be Camelot. The diagrams showed the spells and gear designs that put it together and commanded it to do the will of its creator. It walked on two giant legs, like some great troll, but its hands were devastating—they would shoot, like a pistol or Gatling gun, but with far deadlier efficiency.

“Arthur has been wearing the key to some sort of machine…pistol like a charming family heirloom?” Merlin asked incredulously.

“A key. The dragons complete the mechanism.”

Merlin read:

_The clockwork pieces completing the sentinel are kept apart at all times, lest the weapon be used against us. These pieces have been enclosed in the seals of both houses that created the beast._

“The Pendragons worked with Vortigern’s ancestors to create the sentinel when the kingdom was united long ago, to protect it from external threats.”

“And now the threat is Vortigern.”

“It would appear so.”

“So these keys. What are they?”

“It would seem that the most intricate part of the machine, that which controls its movements and its firing, is contained in these parts.”

“And Vortigern couldn’t just duplicate them?”

“These were created, this _all_ was created by artisans with magic, Merlin. Even Babbage himself would need help designing something of this scale.”

Merlin looked at the images. “If Camelot was attacked with this…”

“Or London, or any city or village, yes.”

“The empire has little to combat this. An army of them…”

“Exactly. If Vortigern can replicate the keys, he would be free to create a mechanical army.”

“But why?” Merlin asked.

“Vortigern has always felt he should be high king of the empire. When he was younger, as you know, he tried to grab power.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure you know just how many of the old families came to his aid. My brother—”

“Ambrosius.”

Yes. Ambrosius died fighting alongside Uther, for the empire.”

“And these other lords, now, they sulk in their castles, awaiting their opportunity?”

“Sending assassins and fools to eliminate Uther’s legacy, the son who is destined to lead the empire’s defense in this modern age.”

“Destined?”

“Yes, Merlin. Destined. As you are destined to serve at his side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Merlin. Surely you’ve seen hints of this in your studies. You are the one they call Emrys.”

“I know, but surely that doesn't mean... That is, I’m named Emrys for my uncle—your brother—Ambrosius. Not...”

“Merlin,” Gaius said, shaking his head. “Ambrose came to clear a path for you. You, with Arthur, will do so much—” He stopped suddenly. “It is not for me to tell.”

“Galapas and Freya have said nothing; neither have the other seers.”

“Well, maybe they think it will go to your head.”

“Or maybe they think it’s just mad.”

“It certainly is if you don’t find Vortigern.”

“ _Find_ him?”

“Mm. No one has seen him since the war. Years ago.”

“Well, where is he?”

Gaius shrugged.

 

It took Merlin days to find a lead on Vortigern’s location. Once they knew who they sought, Morgana and Gwen were eager to help. They spent hours poring over the library’s maps and globes. Geoffrey walked through occasionally, glowering at them as their frustration reached a certain volume.

It was Will who found the clue. Merlin had been quick to confide in his oldest friend, who agreed to help despite a fervent dislike of Arthur. Will sat next to Merlin in the hidden-not-hidden room, reading through a parcel of letters archived before the war. He grasped Merlin’s shoulder. “Wait,” he said. “Look.”

The letter was written in a fine, thin script:

_Dearest Uncle,_

_Thank you for the music box and the sword. No other gifts have captured our hearts so well. They will be cherished._

_I am pleased to say our marriage has been celebrated across the kingdom. The villagers still bring me flowers daily._

_I am eager for you to see our beautiful land. It is great, and striking, and fills me with awe; on a clear day, I think I could make out the sea, if I looked hard enough._

_It warms my heart to read your promise of a visit; we anxiously await news of when you can come._

_We shall watch for your letter._

“Will, you bloody genius,” Merlin breathed, placing his hand on the back of Will’s neck and smiling, delighted. Will smiled back, broadly.

“Do you think this is it?” he asked.

“This is what?” Arthur stepped down into the room, eyes tracking Merlin’s hand as it returned to the page.

Merlin bounded across the room. “Look at this letter.”

Arthur read. “So?”

“He has to be there.”

“Based on one letter?”

Will crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “You come up with anything better, Pendragon?”

Arthur ignored him.

“There’s no other correspondence or reference we’ve come across that even mentions a foreign contact. If he’s truly somewhere amassing power, he must have, well, powerful allies to keep him hidden,” Merlin explained.

“So whom is this from?”

“A niece, obviously,” said Will. He and Arthur glared at each other as Merlin stacked their materials.

Merlin was not sure why Will had such contempt for Arthur. As far as he knew, they hadn’t spoken before these past few days. Now, it seemed that every time they saw each other, their dislike became more intense. “Morgana and Gwen mentioned heraldry, family trees, registries, and records yesterday,” he said.

“Oh, when you weren’t with us men, training?” Arthur asked. He was teasing, Merlin realized.

“What good is training if you don’t know where to fight?” he retorted.

Arthur made a face. “Good for this,” he said, pushing Merlin as they left the room. Merlin shoved back, forcing Arthur to take a few steps sideways. He answered with another shove, which sent Merlin careering into a suit of armour in the corridor. Amidst the ensuing cacophony, Merlin scrambled to right the thing, which was heavy and awkward. They ended up side-by-side, pressed together, holding on to it as they fought to keep it upright. Arthur placed the helmet back as Merlin reattached the left rerebrace, then the couter. Arthur handed him the vambrace, holding the gauntlet.

As Merlin manipulated the straps, he felt something like adrenaline flood his veins. They were close to finding Vortigern, he knew. He looked at Arthur, thinking how close he was, for someone he despised a few days before. Thinking, perhaps, he still despised him a little because he was a cabbage head, undoubtedly. His body was warm from their tussle, and Arthur’s closeness—his warmth—made Merlin feel over warm. Arthur’s breath was hot, so near his face. He tugged a bit at his scarf and Arthur watched him closely.

He'll think I’m ill, thought Merlin, wondering if his sweat was visible. Arthur wet his lips, but didn’t say anything. He felt his eyes on his neck like a touch. It unbalanced and unsettled him, and he suppressed a shiver.

Merlin looked back at the strap, feeling his face flush. “Not to worry, I’ll get it eventually.”

Arthur slid the gauntlet in place and looked up at him. “I—”

“Come on then,” Will interrupted. He glared at Arthur, clearly not pleased with him pushing Merlin. Merlin made a mental note to tell him it wasn’t personal. Merlin was sure Arthur was just a physical or tactile friend. He probably wrestled around with the knights all the time.

 

They found Gwen and Morgana in the maps room, where they had been joined by Lance and Arthur’s friend Gwaine.

“You must be Merlin,” he said, grasping Merlin’s hand. He smiled broadly.

“Yes. It’s good to meet you. This is Will, a friend from my childhood,” Merlin said.

He noticed Gwaine’s eyes sizing Will up, seeming to assess where he stood at Merlin’s side. They sat down together at a large, circular table.

Arthur spoke. “We believe Vortigern has exiled himself with a niece, abroad.”

“We?” asked Will.

“Yes, _we_ , Will. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Before, you mocked the idea and our,” he gestured to himself and Merlin, “ _our_ certainty.”

Arthur looked at Merlin, then around the table, and back to Merlin. “If Merlin says it is so, I believe it.”

“Just like that?” Will argued. “You just—”

“Will.” Merlin silenced him with a word and a glance. He met the clear blue of Arthur’s eyes and nodded.

“Then it’s settled,” Arthur said. “Find a niece.”

Morgana was already sorting through the books of heraldries and genealogies. “Rowena,” she said.

“His wife?” asked Merlin.

“And his niece. Family name. Saxons, originally.” Morgana held up the page. “She wed Ateas of Scythia.”

“Scythia?” asked Gwaine.

Arthur nodded. “Of course. That explains the mystery. No one would look for him in the Caucasus, so far away.

Merlin pointed to a map laid across the table. “Morgause will be halfway there by now, at least.”

“I’ll leave in the morning.”

“You?” Merlin considered Arthur. “You cannot do this on your own. She is a powerful sorceress.”

“I cannot ask you to take this journey with me. It is bound to be perilous.”

Lance and Gwaine looked at each other, smiling. Gwen and Morgana looked defiant.

Merlin squared his shoulders. “I will go. You may need me in your fight.”

Will absently placed his hand on Merlin’s back. He looked a bit stricken as he met Arthur’s cool stare. “I cannot let Merlin go alone.”

“He won’t be alone,” said Arthur.

“I will go,” said Will.

 

So they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The niece, Rowena, is an original character (though Vortigern and Rowena are not, obviously). Scythia has not existed for many centuries, but I'm using it for this alternate history. At its height, Scythian kings controlled a broad territory; for our story, think of a swath of land around the Caucasus Mountains. Selected because it's far enough away from Albion to be far away, but close enough to be close.


	6. The Pelican

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quest begins aboard The Pelican. Pining and jealousy abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reading! You are all beautiful, incredible human beings.

_The Pelican_ had been flown in the war. Arthur’s father had commanded his troops by land and air, and after it was decommissioned, he kept the airship near in a rare show of sentimentality. It was sleek. The gondola was close to the envelope. It was a rigid structure, and as a boy, Arthur thought it looked like an enormous flying shark.

The steam engines in the stern were efficient, and it was quiet and left a rather faint puff of exhaust as it went. The interior was surprisingly spacious. The first time Arthur stowed-away on its run to London, he was four, and its captain, Ector, found him fast asleep on the great bed in his quarters. The second time, he had taken Gwaine, who had charmed the passengers, even at that young age, while Arthur explored the gun decks.

The fourth time, Captain Ector had led him onto the bridge. The fifth time, he let him take the wheel.

Now, as they steamed over the Belgian countryside in the afternoon sun, Arthur felt every bit as confident as a seasoned captain. He looked down on the barley fields and picturesque farms as they cut their way through the cloudless sky.

Behind him, his “crew” seemed only slightly on edge. Gwaine and Lance were sparring with practice swords. Freya, whose presence on the trip was still something of a mystery as far as he was concerned, was teaching Morgana how to scry in a bowl of cold lamb stew.

“I can’t stop thinking about the poor sheep,” Morgana sighed as Freya gasped at whatever she saw and grimaced.

Merlin and Will leaned over a nearby table, heads nearly touching as they perused a map of the Caucasus.

“The castle will be here,” he heard Merlin explain softly. “But landing there will be too dangerous. We have to take a less direct route.”

Will nodded, whispering something that made Merlin laugh, looking up through his eyelashes at him.

Arthur looked back out at the landscape.

“You don’t like him,” said Gwen, quietly. It was not a question, but also not an accusation. She brushed a piece of lint off Arthur’s raven black jacket. He turned again, feeling, somehow, Merlin’s eyes on them. His brow was creased as he watched them, so Arthur lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I don’t know why, except that he clearly hates me. And I’ve done nothing to him.”

“Except be you,” Gwen whispered back. Arthur looked into her eyes, soothed by her steady strength and goodness. He let his face relax.

“Be me?” he asked.

“Arthur, the Marquess of Tintagel. Heir to the dukedom. Prince among men, handsome and powerful. Wealthy. Charmed.”

“You think I’m handsome and powerful?”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You know you are.”

“Guinevere, I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you how beautiful you are for months—years, even. And you tell me I’m handsome like that, before tea, so to speak.”

Gwen sighed. She placed her hand on Arthur’s arm. “I’m happy to hear you say it now.”

Arthur waited for the familiar lift in his stomach, the quickened heartbeat, and was surprised, even a bit disappointed when it didn’t come.

“But I’m more happy that we can clear the air,” Gwen said. She glanced back at Lance, who Gwaine had cornered beneath a staircase.

“I see,” Arthur said, feeling his smile down to his soul. It felt _right_. He nodded, taking in the look of selfless, pure affection on Gwen’s face. He would never be able to look at Guinevere the way she looked at Lancelot. Indeed, he didn’t know if he could look at anyone that way.

“But that is not the point,” said Gwen. “The point is, Merlin clearly loves his friend, and I think it pains him that you do not.”

So many thoughts flooded Arthur’s mind that he decided to focus on none of them. He set his jaw. “It shouldn’t matter what pains him,” he replied. “We are headed into battle.”

“Yes, Arthur. We are _all_ sailing into battle. For you.”

“Not Will. He’s here for Merlin.”

“Are you even listening? Are you listening to yourself?”

Arthur heaved a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just… worried. Concerned.”

Gwen nodded. She raised on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

The sound of Merlin dropping a heavy book startled them all. Arthur turned and saw Will picking it up from the floor, a peaceful smile on his face. Merlin’s face was red.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “Now that you’ve ensured we’re awake and alert, have you identified a means of, uh… storming the castle?” He tilted his head to the side as he took in Merlin’s flustered movements, the uncertain hands that steadied as his eyes flashed.

He felt the eyes of everyone on him, but kept his on Merlin (the clumsy fool), who took Guinevere’s place at his side. This, too, was sparring, albeit a different kind than Arthur was used to. Merlin’s mouth curled up into the tiniest smile as he planted his feet and narrowed his eyes. He laid a map on the control panel beside him and swept into a mocking bow.

“Of course… _my lord_ ,” he said, looking up at Arthur.

Arthur’s response was confusing. His blush, assuredly, was from Merlin mocking him in front of their friends. Naturally. So it was no surprise that he felt such heat in his face. The heat in his stomach, though, and perhaps, Arthur thought with a shiver, _lower_ , was certainly not related to the throatiness of Merlin’s voice as he called him his lord. For the gods’ sakes, he wasn’t really his lord. Except that that was his title. But the wicked gleam in Merlin’s blue eyes as he looked at him with a challenge—that look felt like the whisper of a touch. It ran down his spine like a fingertip in the dark, and Arthur cleared his throat and looked away. His eyes settled on the map as he blinked a few times. When he looked back, Merlin’s face was a bit pink, too.

“Show me,” commanded Arthur. He tried to put authority in his voice, but it came out husky. He cleared his throat again. “If you please… Emrys.”

The talking resumed behind them all at once. Most of the party suddenly decided it was time for another meal and disappeared. Will, who was no longer smiling, took a book, by himself, and went somewhere below deck.

Merlin looked around the suddenly empty room, amused. “It seems you scared them off,” he said.

“Me?” asked Arthur. “How?”

“Wanting to talk shop. Battle commands and such. And everyone was having a lovely time, too.”

“A lovely time? Really, Merlin. Sometimes you really can be an idiot. We’re headed to war.”

“Oh, so now it’s Merlin again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. ‘My Lord’?”

Merlin made a face. “They should be relaxing and enjoying themselves. This whole trip is terrifying.”

Arthur stopped, suddenly feeling like, well, a prat. “Is that what this is about?” He searched Merlin’s face. “I’m sorry, Merlin. It’s okay to be scared.”

“That isn’t what I meant. And anyway, I know that. I’m… fine.”

“You’re worried about your friend.”

“I’m worried about all my friends.”

“Well, Gwaine and Lance are fierce fighters, as is Morgana, actually. Gwen and Freya can stay back from any melee, perhaps using the ranged weapons if needed. I’m unsure about Will, but perhaps he can defend them. As can you.”

“I will fight at your side, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed. “I’d rather you keep clear of the fray, Merlin.”

“You know I will serve you best at your side, defending you.”

“Serve me?” Arthur asked. He tried to be flippant. “First using the honorific, and now you speak of service. Merlin, what have I done to receive such… obsequiousness?”

Merlin almost smiled. “Obsequiousness? I’m impressed, but you mischaracterize my actions.”

“Do I?” Arthur asked, rhetorically. “Okay then, how do you characterize it?”

Merlin’s eyes raked over him, from the top of his head, across the sword belt and pistols, over his black jacket to the red of his dragon-stitched waistcoat, to the fitted trousers and boots below. He didn’t seem to be conscious of his eyes on Arthur, as if he was absently sizing him up, and Arthur found himself doing the same. Merlin looked cavalier. His hair was as rumpled as ever, and Arthur could see the shadow where he needed to shave. Merlin was weaponless, as always, in shirtsleeves and braces. His shirt was open at the neck and he was without the omnipresent scarf or neckerchief. Arthur saw the curve of his clavicle, the faint wisp of chest hair barely visible. It was curious, he thought, that he wanted to see more. It was a fascination that felt something like hunger; it was unsettling. He pulled his gaze away to find Merlin’s eyes fixed on his lips, which he realized were slightly parted.

Merlin bit his lip, and shook his head as if clearing it, which made Arthur realize he, at some point, had turned his own gaze to Merlin’s mouth.

And why? Arthur wondered. These gazes or thoughts, or whatever they were—or weren’t, he corrected himself—were unlike him. He was Arthur. He lived life by mission, one to the next. He had time and energy for brotherhood and blood. This was _not like_ him. They looked to the map, as if of one mind.

“We should approach from the south,” Merlin said, pointing.

Arthur stood beside him and leaned across the map to examine it. He nodded, feeling Merlin’s warmth as he leaned close, running his finger along a mountain pass. “This road has been used for centuries,” he said softly. Arthur felt his breath on his cheek. He turned his head, a tiny movement, and they were breathing each other’s air. Merlin’s eyes were hooded as he looked into Arthur’s. They were fathomless and eternal. “My lord…” he whispered.

The squeak of a door hinge was startling. Merlin straightened so abruptly he knocked over a sextant.

Will stood in the doorway, staring Arthur down.

“I think I know a better way into the castle,” he said.

 

They reviewed the plan after dinner. Gwaine had produced a deck of cards and led a leisurely game of whist.

“So these tunnels are clear?” he asked, adjusting his cards.

Will nodded. “They should be. They are ancient, but have been used fairly recently.”

“Used? For what?” asked Lance.

“Explored,” Will corrected himself. “It’s documented in the journal I found.”

“And how did the exploration go?” asked Morgana.

Will was silent.

“It didn’t say,” observed Merlin. “Freya,” he said, turning to her. “You know we must ask.”

Freya looked into the gaslight, her eyes un-focusing. She looked confused, then sad, and then resigned. When she returned to the table, mindfully, her face was grim. “You will make it through these tunnels,” she told Merlin.

Arthur noted the stiff set of Merlin’s jaw. Merlin leaned close to her. “What are you not telling us?” he asked.

Her eyes were full as she looked back at him. “You know I see much in the fire,” she answered. “It is my… cross to bear.” Her face was pale. Merlin reached out and caressed her cheek. “I cannot tell you everything,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” As she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, a tear slid down her cheek.

Merlin stood and led her from the table. “It’s late,” he said. “We should all get some rest.”

 

Their stopping point was somewhere in Rhineland. It was friendly territory, but Lance took first watch and promised to wake Gwaine, who would rouse Arthur.

Morgana, Gwen, and Freya shared the captain’s quarters, with its massive bed. Gwaine took a hammock below decks, like any soldier. Arthur lost track of Will, who seemed even surlier than usual to him. The officer’s quarters were a pair of rooms, side-by-side. Arthur didn’t light the gaslight, but began to undress in the moonlight that poured in through the wide porthole.

He didn’t hear the door open, but he heard Merlin gasp as he turned. Arthur’s shirt was unbuttoned, his weapons off, jacket and waistcoat laid over a chair.

The light from the hall streamed into the room like gold, casting heavy shadows in the corners.

“I’m sorry,” said Merlin. “I’ll take the other room.” He turned to leave.

“Merlin, wait,” said Arthur. He absently undid his cufflinks, setting them on the desk. “How is Freya? She seemed… shaken.”

Merlin nodded. He entered the room tentatively and ran his hand over the dragon stitching on Arthur’s waistcoat. “She and Will,” Merlin began, “they are not fighters.”

Arthur slid off his shirt without thinking. “They must love you a great deal to be here.”

Merlin’s eyes were bright in the moonlight. “Will and I…” he trailed off. Arthur felt his breath quicken a bit. “Will and I have… a long history.”

It was such a casual, yet loaded statement. Arthur could not help but wonder what “history” meant. Images of Merlin, young and laughing with Will, filled his mind. It was… distasteful. Perhaps that was the wrong word. Arthur wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling. It was a cruel twisting in his chest, like when Bedivere got that white stallion for his seventh birthday—but keener, and—

“I should go,” said Merlin, his eyes running across Arthur’s chest. He stepped into the hallway before Arthur could respond.

“Yes,” whispered Arthur. “You should… get some sleep.” He laid his shirt over the chair. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight,” Merlin whispered, closing the door.

 

It took a long time to fall asleep in the mirrored rooms, stretched out in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time there will be a lot more action, I promise. Or anyway, action of a different sort than the long, lingering looks and heavy breathing seen here.
> 
> As I prepare to write it, Husband says, "Hey! Let's watch Master & Commander for inspiration!" He wants it to be brutal, apparently. (There will be death; it has been planned; you have been warned; sorry!)


	7. Ice and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pelican is attacked by Vortigern's men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this chapter contains graphic violence and the death of a prominent character. This death is canon-compliant, but it is still sad. The death happens toward the end of the chapter, if you wish to skip it.
> 
> Also, trigger warning for the last few paragraphs which contain a suicide; it is not described in detail.

When Merlin woke, he felt the ship was already steaming east. A glance out the porthole told him the weather had turned. The clouds were thick around _The Pelican_ , and rain would be falling.

As Merlin dressed, his first thought was how fortunate they were that Arthur was skilled as a captain, and then he thought, of course. The man was good at everything, and really that was infuriating, not endearing.

Arthur Pendragon, he reminded himself, was a rich bully who thought the world was created to do his bidding. He _expected_ to be followed, Merlin thought.

Merlin tied a red neckerchief over his blue monochromatic suit. He left off the jacket, contemplating the blue of his shirt. It was a stunning hue, he thought, though he’d not realized before. Clear blue, like the summer sky. Or Arthur Pendragon’s eyes.

It was an absurd thought, but Merlin allowed himself to relish it for a few moments. He thought of how those eyes shone in the dim gaslight streaming into his quarters last night and Arthur’s bare chest, his muscles relaxed but always so… present. Unavoidable. Impossible to ignore.

The urge had been so intense to reach out and just touch. To place a hand on the warmth there that was unaccountably comforting.

He thought of Arthur’s eyes. They had looked at him with heat, yesterday. With such intensity, Merlin had been shaken—had shaken, literally. He felt himself being drawn toward _something_ , a gravitational pull. Something that could never be. This was Arthur Pendragon, after all. He was nobility and, well, a Pendragon, and that meant even more, somehow. And naturally, Merlin had always been open to attraction with whoever. His mind flashed back to those youthful nights in Ealdor, when he and Will had first discovered… But this was Arthur Pendragon. And while he may be devastatingly handsome when he gave him that wide-eyed look, he was a prat, and a noble one, and Merlin _must_ remember and resist. Arthur probably didn’t even realize what his actions implied. Merlin should definitely think about Freya instead. Freya, who wasn’t telling him everything she saw about this trip. Freya, whom he’d stolen a quick kiss from last night before retiring. Before the room and the gaslight and Arthur’s chest. No. Freya. That kiss. Funny that _that_ wasn’t his first thought in the morning.

Freya was just the kind of person Merlin should be kissing: magic, beautiful, and from a village like Ealdor. Merlin decided she should occupy more of his thoughts and made up his mind it would be so.

 

Before breakfast, Merlin went to the engine room and checked his enchantments, ensuring they would keep the steam at desired levels. He took his time in the galley. When he walked onto the bridge carrying a steaming mug of tea, he was licking jam off his fingers, one at a time.

Arthur was tense, he saw, straining to see through the dense clouds as he leaned over the wheel. He pulled back the engine order telegraph from half to slow. Merlin was pleased to feel the airship slow; the enchantments were sound.

Merlin nodded a greeting to Gwen, who sat on a low wooden chair, reading a book. The other crew members were occupied elsewhere, training or sleeping or eating, as it were.

Merlin sat his tea down and peered out into the soupy sky. “So much for our fast progress,” he observed.

Arthur hummed in agreement. He seemed to avoid eye contact, and Merlin thought perhaps that was good. Ambiguous talk of destiny notwithstanding, this entire trip was only a result of timing and location thrusting them together, right? Merlin was simply needed because of Morgause. Afterward, they would return to the status quo, Arthur in his castle with his tournaments and hunting trips, and Merlin learning to master his magic from the sage wizards and monks of Camelot. He looked at Arthur, who had picked up his tea, sipped it, and sat it down, absently. Merlin gave him a pointed look and he seemed abashed, turning to look again, into the clouds. As his eyes widened and breath quickened, Merlin was confused. Then he, too, shifted his attention—just in time to see the first cannon fire.

 

Arthur spun the wheel to port and _The Pelican_ turned sharply, limber and tight.

“Battle stations!” Arthur yelled. Merlin thought it seemed instinctual, Arthur visibly transitioning into a warrior.

Gwaine arrived first, still fastening his gun belts and pulling the goggles from his hat.

“Starboard bow,” Arthur commanded.

“Aye,” Gwaine agreed, disappearing up the staircase as he pulled a rifle from his back.

“Port side,” Arthur called to Lance, who looked invigorated. He nodded and disappeared as well. Two more cannon shots fired from the clouds and suddenly it was upon them.

This ship was smaller than _The Pelican_ , but Merlin could make out the white dragon insignia on the bow. Arthur squinted through the glass as if he could stare down the other captain and yelled, “Fire at will!”

The first shot, from the port side cannon, was wide, but Gwaine’s attack hit true, taking out the ship’s font gunner, who dropped unceremoniously to the deck. Gwaine fired the cannon next, puncturing the envelope, but neither ballonet.

“Gwen,” Arthur commanded, “take the wheel.”

“But—”

“Take the wheel and keep us up in the sky.” His eyes narrowed at the men funneling above deck on the other airship. “Prepare to be boarded,” he yelled. He looked at Merlin, his jaw set. “Let’s go,” he said in a low voice. Merlin shivered and followed.

 

Morgana had already reached the deck when Arthur and Merlin arrived. Arthur gestured for her to join Gwaine. Arthur and Merlin ran to the bow, where the first grappling hook had already struck and found purchase. It was followed by too many to count, and soon the battle was waged.

Arthur blasted the first two boarders with his pistol, but soon three more were on him and his blade flashed and seemed to spark as it collided with theirs. Merlin was stunned, but was shocked into attention by a bullet whizzing past his ear. “ _Ástríce!_ ” Merlin yelled, flinging the gunman over the bow. He turned to Arthur, who was now fighting four men, and incanted, “ _Awendaþ eft wansæliga neat_.” All five of them were bowled over, but Arthur rolled neatly onto his feet and drew his second pistol, eliminating the four attackers in as many shots.

“Merlin!” he shouted, pointing. Merlin turned just in time to dodge a blade.

“ _Lyft sy þe in bǽlwylm ac forhienan se wiðere_ ,” Merlin chanted, summoning a ball of flame that overtook the man wielding it.

Arthur looked stunned now. He stared at the man’s remains, heedless of another gunman. This time, Merlin drew from his magic to blast the man backward without a spell. A wave of his hand sent the man overboard. Arthur recovered.

“It would seem you’ve done this before,” he called to Merlin, sword clanging and singing in the air.

“Never for this,” answered Merlin, eyes flashing as they roamed the deck.

Gwaine and Morgana fought back to back. She wielded a thin blade with deadly accuracy, her quick movements nearly a dance on the wet deck. Gwaine was less graceful, but just as deadly. He laughed with a joy in battle that made Merlin smile, despite the peril.

Lance was a blur. His katanas were barely visible, slicing the air and opponents alike, as if it was effortless.

When Will arrived on deck, Merlin barely noticed. He held his hunting rifle, and he set up a position behind a windlass. Merlin may not have noticed him, had he not heard the round strike the attacking ship’s envelope. The semi-rigid structure was damaged from their cannon fire, and the rifle shot made a terrible clang as it tore through a nose cone batten.

Will reloaded and took aim again. This time, Merlin saw how near the aft ballonet the bullet struck. The third round struck the vertical stabilizer, and Will had been noticed.

The attacker was dressed in dark red leather, and he had sneaked past Lance somehow, to the aft. He crept toward Will, silent and careful on the slick deck, sword drawn. Merlin and Arthur saw him at the same time.

The enemy soldiers surrounded them, it seemed, as they fought to reach Will. “The ballonets!” yelled Arthur. “Take out the ballonets!” Rifle reports rang out in quick succession, and then Merlin thought one must have struck home because Will stopped firing.

With a shout of rage, Arthur cleared free of the final two attackers and lunged at the man in the oxblood leather, just as he dove at Will. He rose, facing Arthur. Arthur held his sword as they circled each other on the deck, now soaked in blood as well as icy rainwater.

“Arthur Pendragon,” the man sneered. “At last we meet. It is with joy that I bring your death.”

Arthur stopped. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve heard that.” He took a step toward the man. “I predict this time will be like the others.” And they _fought_. For every thrust, the other parried. For every slash, the other dodged, spun, and countered. Merlin could not aid; he thwarted more attackers by calling forth fire and wind, sending back the opposing soldiers each time they tried to strike. It was Will, instead, who joined the duel. With horror, Merlin watched him take his dagger and lunge, jumping on the man’s back, slashing at him. Both Arthur and Merlin yelled, “No!” but the man was fast. As Will plunged the blade into the man’s gut, the assassin’s blade, slick with ice and blood, was embedded deep in Will’s side.

They both struck the deck.

“Will!” Merlin shouted. He fell at his side, his hands on Will’s face. “Will! No!” He turned and saw Arthur, still fighting, through eyes full of tears. No, he thought. They would not have this day. And then his mind was blank.

It was pure emotion. Merlin felt the yell as it left his gut, his throat raw from the power of it. He knew not what words he spoke—if any. Magic, pure and elemental, filled his body and tugged at something in the atmosphere around them.

Neither fire nor lightning struck the enemy airship. Instead, something like both erupted from it with the force of an explosion. The smoldering wreckage seemed to hang for a moment, then dropped. Its weight tugged at _The Pelican_. Lance and Gwaine frantically hacked at the ropes retaining their hold, and then it fell free to the fields below.

Arthur stood over the final attacker, who trembled. “By what right do you attack a vessel of the empire?” he demanded. Merlin watched through the haze as the man, quaking, took out his knife. “Stop!” Arthur commanded.

“The white dragon will rise!” shouted the man, and with great violence, ended his own life.

“Coward,” said Arthur in disgust.

 

Merlin knew Arthur had returned to his side, but he could not look up from Will’s body. He stayed on the deck, holding him, as they cleared the bodies, patched the most serious wounds, and sat the airship down in a field beside the wreckage, which still smoldered with an unnatural glow. The rain turned to snow, and it froze on Merlin as he sat, contemplating how he hadn’t been faster or stronger, how Will was only here because of him.

How this was all his fault.

The snow accumulated, covering them and the bloody deck with a pure, cold white.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I promise there will be some fluff next chapter...


	8. The Bravest Man I've Ever Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, the dead must be buried. Arthur and Merlin grieve and are comforted.
> 
> Total hurt/comfort. And Angst. And so on.

The field the airships landed in was owned by an elderly man and his wife, whose family had lived off the land for generations. Arthur paid him handsomely when he agreed to take care of the wreckage. Arthur knew he would get even more from the salvage, so he didn’t feel bad about leaving it. It took the afternoon to bury the dead.

They burned Will. Merlin tearfully built a pyre while the others buried Vortigern’s men. Arthur tried to help him build, but was rebuffed. “He’s my responsibility,” Merlin said, sweat soaking his shirt despite the cold.

“Merlin, you can’t—”

“He’s _my_ responsibility,” he insisted.

Arthur stood silently, watching as Merlin placed coins on his eyes for the boat to Avalon, kissed him on both cheeks, and set the pyre aflame. Arthur placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, but he shook it off. And then Merlin’s shoulders began to quiver, his body racked with grief. This time, Arthur tightened his grip. When Merlin sank to his knees in the snow, Arthur followed, kneeling behind him. He kept his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, but wrapped his other arm around him, pressing his hand over his chest. Merlin grasped his arm there, breaths heaving as he watched the flames.

 

They were silent aboard the ship. Morgana had met with the farmer’s wife, who came out to give them fresh bread, honey, and mead. “You take care of that young man,” she told Arthur as he said his thanks.

“Always,” he replied, and then realized it was true. They’d been working together for a week, but it felt like a lifetime. It was as if, in some way, Merlin filled a place in his life he’d not realized was empty. He watched Merlin, now, as he sat in silence, watching the darkening sky pass, and wished he knew his view of their situation.

Stop being selfish, Arthur told himself. He’s lost his closest friend. He has no time for thoughts of you amidst his grief.

Freya came and sat beside Merlin. Her face was red from tears.

“This was it,” Merlin said, his voice severe. “This was what you hid from me. From all of us.”

Freya was silent. Her chin quivered.

“Why?” he asked. “Why didn’t you warn us?”

“Some things I cannot tell,” she said, her voice low.

“You could have said something, Freya. You could have said anything.”

“No, there was no way for me—”

“No,” said Merlin, his voice like a shot. “You could have told him to stay inside. You could have told me to watch him.”

“He had to be there; it had to happen.” She looked up a bit desperately.

“Why? Why, Freya?” Merlin’s voice was breaking.

She stared at Arthur, who struggled to keep his eyes on the ship’s controls and the sky.

Suddenly Arthur understood. He or Will, one of them would have been killed by the man in red. It had been Will. She had let Will die, for him. Arthur felt the air leave his body, his stomach churning.

And then it seemed Merlin understood, too. His eyes, when they met Arthur’s, were filled with pain and confusion, and something that was very near betrayal, despite Arthur not being in control in this case. He took in Arthur’s face, and then looked away.

“I could do nothing. I could say nothing,” said Freya.

“Then you let him die. You chose.”

“No, Merlin, that isn’t how it works.”

“You let Arthur live and Will die.”

The words were spoken and they felt like Merlin had cut Arthur after all. What would have happened had Freya told Will to hide? Would Arthur have died? The fight had been well matched, that was certain. Enough to defeat him? Arthur wasn’t sure. He should have known. He should’ve told Will to go below decks, or to the bridge to help Gwen. Anything. He had told him to shoot out the ballonets, which hadn’t even been necessary, in the end.

Of course, that was because of Will, too, in a sense. Arthur thought of the raw display of Merlin’s power and shivered. The strike, that explosion, had been unlike anything Arthur had seen or heard of. This man was deadly, when pushed. All because of Will.

Arthur was alive because Will had died. They _all_ were alive because Will had died.

Freya reached out to touch Merlin’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Arthur had to survive.”

Merlin pushed her hand away. “No,” he said, standing. “No,” he repeated, walking away.

 

Arthur kept _The Pelican_ going late into the night, trying to make up progress. They steamed over Europe by starlight, the cities and villages twinkling below.

Merlin wished he was dead, Arthur thought. His earlier thoughts returned. How close he had felt to him, certain he had found a new kind of friend. Someone who seemed to truly _see_ him when they were together. Merlin had seen him, and had found him wanting. Like the writing on the wall. Arthur had taken Merlin’s true friend—with whom he had _history_ —without even knowing. It was his ignorance that had beat him. He had mindlessly undertaken this quest and the risks it brought, heedless of the danger to everyone else. It was like something his father would do: risking lives on a fool’s errand, underpowered and outmanned. He should have brought Gwaine and Lance with Leon and Percy. Then their losses could at least be expected, despite the sadness. Instead he’d brought _friends_. Perhaps, as a knight of Camelot, Arthur didn’t have a place for friends after all. Brotherhood and blood, he thought. As he’d always known, somewhere, deep down. As his father had taught him.

 

Arthur woke Gwaine to take the watch. They cast the anchor down in dense forest.

“You fought well today,” he told his knight. “With valour and strength.”

Gwaine rubbed his jaw and leaned back in his chair. “Nothing like the courage shown by Merlin.”

“And Will,” added Arthur.

Gwaine nodded absently. “Merlin fought on the frontline of battle without knowing the enemy or having any combat training, as far as I’m aware. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was…” he waved his hand in a slow, arching gesture. “It was singular.” He considered a moment. “And he’s deuced good looking.”

Arthur was struck silent.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” Gwaine gave him a pointed look.

Arthur frowned, eyes narrowing. What was Gwaine getting at? Yes, he’d _noticed_. How could anyone not? Had they noticed that he’d noticed?

Gwaine’s lips quirked into a smile. “Much better thoughts to sleep to, eh?”

“Than?”

“Whatever nonsense you were glowering over when I came up. What happened today, Arthur, was not your choosing. So think of blue eyes and cheekbones instead, tonight.”

“Why would—”

Gwaine silenced him with another wave of his hand. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur knew when it was time to retreat, so he did. And then, thinking better of it, he took a bottle of mead and a glass from the table, quietly walking to his cabin.

 

The airship was silent, save for the slight hum of the engines, which kept running all night, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Arthur stood outside the officers’ quarters, still. He put his hand on the handle of Merlin’s door; the red glass knob flickered in the gaslight as if it were enchanted.

Arthur could apologize, he thought. But for what? For being alive? And truly, Merlin wasn’t an idiot, despite Arthur’s fondness for declaring him one. He had to know the risks of their journey. Arthur sighed and pulled his hand back. He stepped over to his own door, turned the knob, and entered. He closed the door and stood in the dark, resting his forehead on its cool surface.

It took several moments to realize the shadows at his feet were moving. He turned around. Merlin sat on his bed, above the blankets, holding a sphere of dim light. He twisted it around, staring into it, and didn’t look up at Arthur.

Arthur quietly poured a full glass of mead, placed the half-empty bottle on the desk, and sat down beside Merlin on the bed. He took a sip of the sweet drink, felt it slide down his throat. Merlin took the glass and sipped from it, letting the light float above them.

Arthur pulled it from the air. It felt like butterfly wings. “Incredible,” he said softly.

They sat in silence, passing the glass between them, until the pain was just a little less keen.

“I should have known, somehow,” Merlin whispered, finally. “I should have guessed.”

“I should have stopped him,” Arthur replied. “This is my fight.”

“No,” said Merlin. “It’s like I said. He is—was… my responsibility.”

Arthur looked at him, setting the glass down. The light highlighted his cheekbones; he looked so fragile. “No, this is my command,” Arthur argued. “I’m supposed to be, like the Druids say, a great leader. I can’t lead anything.”

Merlin caught his gaze. “Yes you can, Arthur.”

“I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin was quiet.

“If I had known, I never would have let him fight.”

“And then you would be dead.”

“Perhaps. But that is my duty.”

“No.” Merlin shook his head. “No.” He placed his hand on Arthur’s wrist. “That isn’t an alternative. This isn’t an either or.”

“Isn’t it?” Arthur felt lost. He turned his hand over, felt Merlin’s fingers, cool, on his palm. The enchanted light turned blue.

“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted. “I know the forces of magic, the gods of the old religion, the priestesses, they maintain a balance of life and death. They demand a life be given sometimes.” His fingers idly traced the lines of Arthur’s palm.

“So it could have been my life in his stead. It should have been,” Arthur insisted.

Merlin shook his head. “I never should have let him come in the first place, and maybe this would all be avoided.” Two tears slid from his eye, reflecting the light. Arthur clasped his hand, entwining their fingers.

“You didn’t force him,” he said. “He wanted to be by your side. I could say I never should have let you come.” He fought the urge to wipe the tears from Merlin’s cheek.

“And I could say the same: that I want to be by your side, my lord.” The words stirred something deep within Arthur. He reached out and brushed the tears away. His hand tentatively rested on Merlin’s neckerchief. Merlin’s thumb slid along the edge of his palm. “I feel like I made this happen because they know I would choose you,” Merlin whispered.

The breath caught in Arthur’s throat. He twisted his fingers in the cloth. “This isn’t your fault,” Arthur whispered. “You were… incredible today. I’ve never seen anyone fight like you to save the people he loves.” The neckerchief came loose in his hand.

Merlin’s exhalation was shaky, and Arthur wasn’t certain if it was the emotion from Will’s death or something else. His eyes dropped to Merlin’s bare neck, the curve of his bones, his Adam’s apple. He watched him swallow. He dropped the cloth and reached his hand out, tracing the column of Merlin’s neck. “I think,” he whispered, “you must be the bravest man I’ve ever met.” The words were whispered like an embrace, and Arthur thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’d never felt this kind of natural intimacy with anyone, and somehow it seemed so _right_.

His eyes rose to meet Merlin’s, but he found Merlin’s gaze upon his mouth instead. Arthur drew in a breath, sharp. “Merlin,” he whispered. He couldn’t stop himself from wetting his lips. The blue of Merlin’s eyes darkened. The enchanted light pulsed.

“We can’t do this,” Arthur said. He heard the strain in his voice. Merlin’s eyes snapped to his. “Not halfway through a bottle of mead and after…”

“Do what?” Merlin asked. The light began to turn green.

Arthur sat up, letting go of Merlin, hands returning to his lap. He looked around the tiny cabin. “Anything,” he sighed. “We need to sleep. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” He slid off his jacket and undid his waistcoat.

Merlin stood, nodding. He walked to the door. His eyes were hooded.

“Wait,” said Arthur. He searched himself for courage. He found something in his chest that made him persist. He looked at Merlin until he met his eyes. “Stay. Please.” He turned up his hands to show he meant no harm, only innocence and rest.

Merlin hesitated. He watched, warily, as Arthur undid his shirt and laid it over the chair. He stood, leaning against the desk as Arthur bent to take off his boots and socks. When Arthur pulled off his trousers, he heard Merlin draw in a deep breath. He climbed under the blankets and waited. He told himself it was madness, and the mead talking, and probably better if Merlin left. But the relief was intense as he watched Merlin slide off his braces.

As Merlin unbuttoned his shirt, Arthur’s mouth went dry. His chest was angles and hard planes, and so damned _Merlin_ it hurt to look at.

When Merlin finally stripped down to his smalls, Arthur tried to look away. The sharp line of his abdomen and dusting of hair led down past… Arthur closed his eyes. He felt heated. He felt his body responding, despite his earlier protestations.

This is wrong, he thought. This is taking advantage of both our emotional states.

The bed dipped as Merlin slid in beside him. They laid side-by-side. Arthur moved his arm and felt it press against Merlin’s.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

The light went out.

“Goodnight, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, see, here's the thing. I just think Arthur has this chivalry thing that would make him really aware of consent. Something was going to happen and then I thought, no, it just isn't right.
> 
> So we'll just leave them there in bed together and wait for them to sober up.


	9. Understanding and Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Merlin wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE RATING HAS CHANGED TO MATURE. 
> 
> Oh my!

Dawn cast rosy light through the porthole, easing Merlin awake. The soft hum of the ship’s engines was comforting and steady and Merlin was warm. He knew it was cold outside, and that he had time before he faced it.

He was warm, he thought sleepily. So very warm, beneath the blankets with a broad, solid, bare chest pressed against his back.

He came fully awake. The night returned to him: the crushing loss of Will’s funeral, the bitter cold. He had bathed after returning to the ship, and attempted to sleep. But the room was too quiet, his mind too loud. The guilt had been crippling. So he made his way to Arthur’s room. Arthur knew what it was like to lose a friend in battle. Merlin hadn’t expected him to share his pain. Arthur had always seemed rather hostile to Will. Yet he declared, in typical Arthur fashion, that he would have given his life for Will’s.

It was this willingness to be sacrificed now, that made Merlin’s heart swell and ache. His nobility went so far beyond birth and name. Arthur was a man who led by example; it was easy to serve one who lived with such ideals. And serve him, Merlin would. His power, he realized, had a purpose with Arthur. And not just killing, he thought with a frown. That had been… unpleasant. But protecting, he could do. He would do. He would go to the ends of the earth to protect Arthur as he fought to protect the empire and her people.

Arthur, who had pressed against him in the night, his arm draped across his body. His face rested so near the nape of Merlin’s neck, his breath stirred his hair, and as Merlin shivered, Arthur pressed closer. Everything about Arthur was firm, even at rest.

Merlin considered the night before. Arthur was worried about him, he was sure. Worried enough he’d let him stay, even after deciding to have him leave. His breathing shook as he remembered: Arthur’s eyes were deep pools of blue as he pulled off his neckerchief and traced the line of his neck. Merlin had goosebumps at the memory, and Arthur’s hot breath did nothing to quiet the thoughts.

Merlin shifted his hips and Arthur murmured in his sleep, and then—gods above—he pushed his leg against Merlin’s new position. Their bodies pressed fully together. Merlin closed his eyes and bit his lip.

Arthur had been drinking last night, Merlin recalled, possibly even before he came to bed—to the cabin, he corrected himself. He’d been drinking, and he wasn’t himself. Surely that’s why he had looked so… Merlin searched for the word. Lascivious. Flirtatious. _Debauched_. When he had licked his lips in the dark, Merlin thought he was going to break in half or maybe a thousand pieces if those last few centimeters weren’t bridged. He thought he might be torn apart, regardless, if they were.

Merlin had memorized those lips in the last few days. They pouted when Merlin teased him, and then split apart in a devastating grin when Merlin persisted, and he gave back as good as he got. Merlin tilted his head back the tiniest bit, and those lips were on his skin.

He shouldn’t do this, he thought. Arthur was asleep, and this was every bit as bad as trying to kiss him whilst drinking. But then Arthur inhaled, deeply, intertwining their legs even more, and Merlin could _feel_ him. He felt, through the soft cotton of their underclothes, the press of Arthur against him. And Merlin had to struggle to suppress a moan.

It hurt, how blissful this felt. He should pull himself away. Arthur would be awkward when they saw each other later, but they could blame the mead—and anyway, nothing had actually happened. Arthur wouldn’t remember this… embrace. He wouldn’t know Merlin had felt this, or Merlin’s reaction to it, which he realized was at a point he couldn’t conceal. The arousal was intoxicating, and for a moment, Merlin let himself relax into it. He was going to get up and dress, but just one small movement was impossible to stifle and he pushed his hips back.

Arthur murmured again, his mouth opening against Merlin’s neck, and Merlin knew he was imagining it, but it felt like Arthur, too, was aroused.

Merlin had tortured himself enough. He started to disentangle himself, but Arthur’s arm began to move. It drifted close to Merlin’s face, and Merlin watched Arthur’s hand, paralysed, as it settled on his chest. It pushed him back against Arthur.

It was Arthur’s uneven breathing that revealed he was awake, and Merlin felt a flash of vulnerability and embarrassment. But desire flooded him as Arthur’s mouth moved on his neck and he breathed deeply in Merlin’s hair. His hand reached up and caressed Merlin’s cheek and his throat, to his collar bones.

“Is this,” Arthur whispered, his voice breaking, “is this okay?”

And because the words tickled Merlin’s neck, he shuddered as he said, “Yes,” his body moving of its own will. Arthur’s hips rolled against him, then and a low noise came from his throat that was not a groan or a growl, but something like both.

The hand moved lower, to Merlin’s stomach, and Merlin’s chest was heaving as he turned his head and they both stopped. Arthur’s eyes were wide open, and it occurred to Merlin that, in their time together, he had never seen Arthur afraid. Fierce and determined, worried and troubled, yes, but not like this. Now he looked like he was on the edge of a precipice and Merlin might push him over.

Merlin brushed back a few wisps of Arthur’s blonde hair, twisting his body. His mouth turned up at the corner. “Your hair’s a mess.”

Arthur dramatically rolled his eyed. “My hair? You should see—”

Merlin kissed Arthur Pendragon. Arthur’s lips were soft and full. Merlin nibbled on them as Arthur’s hands ran through his hair. When he traced his tongue across Arthur’s bottom lip, he felt him gasp for breath. He clutched Arthur’s arms and explored his mouth, their tongues meeting in an erotic dance that left them both panting and shaking. Arthur’s hand reached down to Merlin’s hip and then tucked around him, pulling up so that his legs were astride, wrapped around Arthur where he sat, now, on the bed. Merlin felt Arthur’s erection pressing against his own, straining to be free of the dampening cloth. His skin felt like fire beneath Merlin’s fingers as he ran them along his chest and sides and Arthur clutched at him, one hand firmly on the back of his neck, the other at the base of his spine. Merlin was crushed against him, as if by pressing more closely together they could merge into one being, one perfect embodiment of understanding and desire; a _completion_.

When Merlin pulled away, Arthur really did seem to growl, but then moaned when Merlin’s lips and tongue found his neck. Merlin pushed Arthur back against the pillows and rose to his knees as he kissed down Arthur’s throat, then made his way to his chest.

“Merlin,” Arthur ground out, voice haggard. “This is… I’ve…” His voice was silenced when Merlin’s hand dipped between his legs. As Merlin undid the drawstring there, Arthur’s eyes closed. When Merlin gripped him, they opened.

And then the ship moved. Sheer panic swept across Arthur’s face, as they both went completely still.

No battle sounds rang out, but Merlin knew the moment was destroyed. Arthur’s face was pale, and Merlin released him. “I thought… It must be Gwaine,” Arthur said. “I thought he’d sleep late, after the watch.”

Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, Arthur beside him. The gods, he thought, must hate him. He’d probably upset another dragon or something. Maybe he was cursed. Arthur rose and stretched, muscles flexing. Merlin thought again: the gods must be jealous.

Arthur was halfway dressed before he acknowledged Merlin hadn’t moved. “Merlin,” he said, pointedly. He raised his eyebrows. “Feeling lazy?”

Merlin glared at him, feeling his face pinken. “No, I just—”

In a flash, Arthur had him flat on his back. “I’m not finished with you, Merlin Emrys. But I have a responsibility.”

“I’m aware. Get off of me.” He pushed at Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur pushed back. “No, I don’t think I will.” He buried his face in Merlin’s neck.

“No!” Merlin argued, shoving harder. “You have _responsibilities_. Or was it just the one, then?”

Soon, their tussle had the bedding in a knot, and they were panting. “Ow, you idiot!” Arthur pushed against Merlin’s face.

“Stop it, you clotpole!” Merlin maneuvered out of Arthur’s hold.

“What on earth is a clotpole?”

“You are!”

“That’s not a thing, Merlin.” Arthur got him in a headlock. So Merlin reached at the magic around him (a rather dense amount today, he noticed) and twisted the blankets even more so they wound around Arthur like ropes. He went still. “That is just not fair,” he whined.

Merlin knew his smile was wicked, but he felt satisfied as he dressed. Arthur glared until he released him. And then he snogged him full on the mouth.

 

Merlin took two buns from the galley before he went to the bridge. Arthur had taken the wheel and Morgana was calculating with the map. Merlin handed a bun to Arthur, who thanked him with a secret smile as Morgana explained they would reach Scythia on the morrow.

Gwaine watched the exchange with a gleam in his eye. He caught Merlin’s gaze with a lifted eyebrow and raised his mug with a small toast before sipping whatever it contained.

Arthur nodded at Morgana’s explanations. “There should be adequate space to dock in this pass. The mountain will keep us hidden from the castle. It is not our intention to start a war,” he said, looking at each of them. “We do not yet know what the journey will require, but we will be ready, rested, and well-fed and provisioned. We should sharpen blades today and clean the firearms.”

 

That night, Arthur took the watch. They stopped on the edge of the Black Sea, and Merlin had climbed down to feel the water and listen to it. The magic here was surprisingly quiet, almost as if it was watching him rather than speaking.

When he returned to _The Pelican_ , Arthur was alone on the bridge, sitting at the table, flipping through the journal Will had found. Merlin’s heart skipped when he recognized it. Arthur placed a warm hand on the back of his neck. “You should get some sleep,” he said, low.

Merlin shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, letting out a great yawn. It was a lie, but he was relieved to have Arthur alone after the day spent with everyone so close. Arthur let go and ran his finger over an illustration on the page. “Tell me what it was like to grow up in Camelot,” Merlin asked.

Arthur’s eyes looked out at the night, taking on a beautiful, faraway look. “It was… magical,” he admitted. He looked back at Merlin. “Nothing like your magic,” he corrected.

“Like my magic?”

“Yes, your magic is so real and, well, powerful and natural. As a child it was just mystery and a kind of terror that drew me in.”

“You were afraid of it?”

“In a way. My father taught me magic was dark, not to be trusted.” He searched Merlin’s face. “And now here we are.”

Merlin smiled. “Will was the first person to know I had magic, after my mother. She always knew, I think, but Will was with me when it started to reveal itself.” Arthur was quiet as he listened. “Things I wanted to happen, I realized they were happening. He noticed my eyes.”

“They are remarkable,” Arthur noted. “Tell me about the first time.”

“Tell me about your first fight,” Merlin answered.

They let each other doze through the night, between stories, as they shared the watch. Arthur woke Lance a few hours before dawn.

Merlin and Arthur collapsed into bed, exhausted and warm with memories and knowledge, and something Merlin realized was rapidly becoming love. He curled up against Arthur’s strength, too tired to do anything but sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang it, Gwaine! Things were going so well...


	10. The Menhirs in the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew arrives in Scythia, near Vortigern's stronghold. They prepare themselves for the journey through the caves. Arthur's seers never warn him about ambushes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be on vacation for the next week and plan to write some, but won't be able to update. Hopefully I'll have some good stuff for you when I return!
> 
> It's very late, so I'm sure there are typos in this; I'll fix them as I look back over it. Sorry!

They anchored _The Pelican_ in a dense mountain forest. Arthur avoided the Scythian castle as they approached, and he felt confident they weren’t noticed. A heavy fog had settled over the region, and it swirled against the windows and portholes as they made final preparations.

Arthur inspected his sword and pistols, eying his crew. Freya was staying with the ship. She’d spoken little since Will’s death, but he had seen Merlin speaking to her earlier, squeezing her arm in a comforting gesture. She looked so sad all the time, Arthur thought. Perhaps he would too, if he saw the future. When Morgana came onto the bridge, Freya rose and clutched her in a firm embrace. She kissed her on both cheeks.

“Be brave, Morgana,” Freya said. “You will be tested, but you can prevail.” She placed her hand on Morgana’s cheek and a look passed between them that Arthur had never seen on his sister’s face. He looked at Gwen, who had also not missed the exchange. Her cheeks were rosy as she smiled, her eyes bright. Arthur watched her turn to Lance, beaming.

Lance tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps you should stay with the ship,” he said.

Gwen stepped close to him. “You would have to lock me up to keep me from coming after you.”

“But—”

“Morgana can’t be the only one going with a brain.”

“I heard that,” said Arthur.

“So did I,” Lance, Merlin and Gwaine said in unison. Gwaine tilted his head back and let out a hearty laugh.

Arthur watched out of the corner of his eye as Freya tied a leather bracelet around Morgana’s wrist, pressing her thumb against her pulse there. Morgana watched her, lips parted.

Merlin, naturally, disturbed the scene. He returned from the galley in a huff, dropping a ridiculously overstuffed knapsack.

“What is that?” Arthur asked.

“This, Arthur, is a knapsack.”

“Well obviously it’s a knapsack _Merlin_. Why does it look like that? We aren’t on holiday to Venice.”

“No. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

“February? Are you daft?”

Merlin shrugged. “Provisions, my lord.” He smirked.

Arthur felt himself blush. Damn Merlin and his impish retorts. “Did you pack the entire galley?”

Merlin looked back and forth between the others. “There are six of us, Arthur. I understand you are accustomed to having food appear on a servant’s tray, in your bed, if you like, but there is some planning involved.”

Arthur thought it better to not say he knew planning was a requirement for getting _anything_ in bed. It had been apparent when they were interrupted yesterday. And this morning they both knew there was not time. He already regretted that decision, in truth. They forced themselves awake at dawn, knowing they must cross the sea and mountains to arrive before the day was through. There was no time to lay there, Merlin draped across him, barely clothed… Arthur turned around abruptly, the thought heating his body, causing it to _stir_. He cleared his throat, looking out at the fog, forcing his mind away from Merlin’s hands trailing across his chest as their lips met. The kiss had been a flood of emotion: frustration that again they didn’t have time, fear they would not find the time, anticipation they would find time soon. Attempting to not think of all the filthy things he was going to do to Merlin on the way home was arduous, and Arthur resolved that when they were home, he was locking Merlin in his chambers and not letting him out for a month. Then he remembered Merlin shooting fire from his hands and thought perhaps Merlin was going to lock Arthur in his chambers. This pull, the give and take of power and masculinity left Arthur lightheaded. He needed to calm down.

Behind him, they divided the provisions between them to carry. Arthur had to focus on the mission. The sooner it was accomplished, the sooner they could leave. Funny, that: he’d never felt a rush to complete a mission before. He lived for a fight. He centered his thoughts.

Arthur had dressed in his lightweight armour for traveling. It was less conspicuous than mail or even his civilian clothes. The brown leather was finely stitched and studded, but unornamented. Merlin, he noticed, wore a heavier scarf than normal. He wore a long, dark overcoat that billowed when he walked like a powerful warlock’s coat should. Even Gwen had dressed like a warrior. She wore fitted leather pants and a blouse beneath a waistcoat. A thick belt around her waist held a dagger and a small pistol. Over that, she wore a jacket like Merlin’s, but shaped more like a dress, cut close at the waist. Will’s rifle was strapped across her back. Morgana, of course, wore black armour. Her clothes were velvet and suede, and any who saw her would know in an instant that she was nobility. He shook his head as she pulled on fur-lined gloves and her bag.

“Let’s go,” he said.

 

The forest was eerily quiet. They knew the general direction to walk, so Arthur led them through the trees. The conifers shielded the ground from some of the snow, but the progress was slow nevertheless.

Arthur had led them for a good distance when Merlin pushed past him in a rush. “Hello, there,” he said.

Arthur looked around. He saw no one. “You really have gone mad,” he observed.

“No, Arthur, look.” He stopped beside a stone, as tall as Arthur, and thin. It was weathered and looked like it had been standing for centuries. “What are you doing here?” Merlin asked it. He placed his hand on it and looked about.

There were thirteen menhirs in total. Arthur watched Merlin’s face, first smiling broadly, his eyes crinkling. Then, as he neared a massive recumbent stone, his smile faltered. A crease formed between his brows. He turned, suddenly, and Arthur followed his worried look.

Morgana stood, transfixed, her mouth silently moving as her eyes went wide, terrified.

“Morgana,” Gwen said gently, taking her arm.

Merlin stopped her. “Let her finish the vision,” he said.

Arthur watched as Morgana rocked back and forth, nearly hyperventilating. After a few moments, which seemed like hours, she sank to her knees. Her eyes focused on Arthur, full of tears. “Never,” she whispered.

Arthur took a step toward her, as did Merlin.

“What did you see?” Arthur asked warily.

Morgana heaved a deep breath. “Did none of you see… that?” She looked at each of them.

Merlin sank down in the snow next to her. “But you remember what you saw?” He looked up at Arthur. “I told you Freya’s tutelage is paying off.”

“Really not the time, Merlin,” Arthur noted in a pained voice.

“It was you, Arthur. You rode a white horse, and you were battling a great white dragon.”

Arthur nodded, immediately thinking of his amulet. “That is good. It’s why we’re here. Did you see if we triumph?”

“Arthur _seems_ to only care about winning,” said Merlin, shooting him a look. “But he’s really just pretending to be an arse. Are you okay?”

Merlin truly could be the most annoying git. Arthur told him so. With feeling. Merlin just smiled, which only made him more annoying.

Morgana shook her head. “I’m fine, but the battle wasn’t here, Arthur. It was home. We were… older.”

“We?” Merlin asked. Morgana looked troubled. “All of us?”

“Yes,” Morgana managed. She trailed off. And really, Arthur wondered, what was it with people with magic and their damned secrets? Clearly, Morgana was hiding something. Was Merlin—irritating as he may be—the only sorcerer who was actually forthright? Maybe he wasn’t irritating after all. No, it was his honesty that made him irritating. But still, Arthur tried to catch his eye to give him a little smile, thinking he may get one of those grins where Merlin’s eyes crinkled and his face lit up. Merlin wasn’t paying attention, naturally.

“We should move—” Arthur stopped. He heard a twig snap. “Down!” he cried, lunging at Merlin. A crossbow bolt slipped through the air like a bullet, embedding in a tree just above their heads. They rolled clear. “Take cover behind the stones,” Arthur called.

It was a small band of attackers, with less firepower than the airship, but Arthur recognized Vortigern’s bannermen.

“How do they know?” he asked Merlin, firing a pair of shots around the recumbent stone.

“Morgause,” Merlin answered. “She must be practised as a seer, too.” Shots struck at the stone. Merlin cringed.

“Well how come _my_ seers never warn me of an ambush?” Arthur asked, as Merlin clutched at the stone, his face aggrieved.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said in a strained voice.

“Not you, Merlin. I’m talking about Freya and—” He realized Merlin wasn’t apologizing to him, but to the menhir. “Really, Merlin?” He fired a shot around the stone and three answered back.

“Do you realize,” Merlin asked, his eyes wild, “how much work it is to raise these things?” And he stepped out from behind the stone like a mad man, jacket billowing behind him. Two pistols and another crossbow were fired at him, but he kept walking, miraculously not hit.

“ _Ic þé wiþdrífe_ ,” Merlin called out, sending two men flying.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Gwaine, rushing from his cover after Merlin. And then, somehow, both Merlin and Gwaine seemed to be lifted into the air and thrown into the stone Arthur still crouched behind, stunned.

Arthur charged out, pistol lifted, and Lance ran to his side, holding a katana with both hands.

“Arthur Pendragon,” a woman’s voice rang out. They turned to face it. “At last, we can be introduced.”

“Show yourself!” Arthur called.

The woman stepped out from behind the last menhir. In her arms, she gripped Morgana, whose hands were bound. She held a dagger to Morgana’s throat.

Lance took a step toward her, and she flicked her hand, eyes flashing, and sent him flying as well.

“Morgause,” Arthur said.

She nodded. “Perceptive.” She looked around. “You’ve killed my men, so I’m taking your half-sister.”

Arthur took a step forward and she lifted a finger, stopping him. Arthur weighted his options. If he charged, she would stun him, and they would be exposed. He did not know the state of each of their party, but he could do more conscious than not, even if she lied about them being dead. He stood still.

“Wise choice,” Morgause said. She traced a hand over Morgana’s cheek. “Never fear, Arthur Pendragon. I’ll take care of her.” She smiled wickedly and turned. She took a step, but a quick rifle report rang out and she was knocked down. Arthur’s head snapped up to find its source. Gwen had positioned herself uphill, and had managed to catch Morgause’s shoulder. She let out a shriek of pain and rage.   
“We are not finished,” she yelled at Arthur. “ _Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard!_ ”

And in a haze, they disappeared.

Arthur ran to Merlin first, yelling, “Gwen, she’s gone.” Merlin was alive, but unconscious. Arthur pulled him to his chest, pushing his hair back from his face. “You bloody idiot, you nearly got yourself killed.” He laid him out, propping his head on a knapsack. Gwaine was coming around already, and Gwen was with Lance, who was also still out cold.

Arthur considered the mission. They needed to get to the cave entrance by dark. Based on the journal, it wouldn’t be far.

 

So it was that, on a cold February evening in the Caucasus, Arthur Pendragon carried Merlin halfway up a mountain, while a recently awakened Gwaine carried their friend Lancelot.

“I wish I had a painting of this,” said Gwen.

 

They reached the entrance as the sun set and made camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's off to New Orleans!  
> When I'm back we'll check in on Morgana, wind our way through some hollow hills, encounter rodents of unusual size (which really do exist), and find our way out of some crazy old temples. 
> 
> And maybe Arthur and Merlin can find some... time.
> 
> Also, continued credit to the Merlin Wikia for spell words.


	11. We Will Do What Must Be Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Morgana's POV, now that she has been taken by Morgause.
> 
> Or: Morgana is tempted to join the dark side because they have superior biscuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!  
> I have two chapters to post tonight; the next part will be up soon.

Morgana prided herself on her toughness. She was a woman living in a man’s world, sure, but so was the empress. Morgana knew she was expected to be weak and simpering. She knew it was unfashionable to be intelligent and strong, but she was anyway, and she wasn’t ashamed; she embraced it.

Morgana was not afraid of herself, of these aspects of herself, and that made it so much worse when she realized she had fainted.

She wasn’t even wearing a tight corset. How embarrassing. It was the frustration of swooning that distracted her from the rather disturbing knowledge she had been kidnapped.

Focus on what you can fix right now, she thought. I can be awake. I can be alive. Next: where am I and how do I get free? She quickly assessed the situation. The room was spacious, with light stone walls and rich carpets with intricate, colorful patterns. Morgana had been laid out on a plush settee.

“You’re awake.” Morgause, she realized, stood behind her, by a window. Outside, Morgana saw the parapets and banners of a thriving castle. Beyond the walls was a breathtaking landscape: tall, snow-covered mountains stretched far in the sky. Morgana stood, determined to assert herself. She squared her shoulders and walked to Morgause.

“I am,” Morgana said. Her voice was clear; she made sure it did not shake.

“Apologies for the abrupt departure,” Morgause said. She rolled her shoulder, and Morgana remembered the rifle blast. Well done, Gwen, she thought. She looked closely at Morgause, who seemed to be watching her reactions. “Oh, it’s fine,” she said. “Our healers are some of the best in the world.” She took a step closer to Morgana. “You have trouble sleeping sometimes, no? Perhaps they can help.”

“I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“Proud, then? Too proud to admit you have trouble. It is okay, Morgana, to be vulnerable. To _need_. Family exists to help.”

Morgana stared at Morgause, trying to decipher her meaning.

Morgause’s smile was subtle, slow. “Family,” she said, as if tasting the word. “Half-sister.”

“I am Arthur’s half-sister.”

“I’m not talking about that fool Arthur Pendragon. I’m talking about me.”

Morgana was not stunned because she didn’t believe Morgause. She coolly assessed her features, searching for any resemblance. Truthfully, Morgause had more in common with Arthur.

“It’s true, Morgana, whether you believe me or not. My mother, Vivienne, was your mother, too. My father, however, is not Uther Pendragon.” She plucked an apple from a bowl of fruit and turned it in her hands. “Uther Pendragon,” she spat, “is the reason I grew up motherless.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When your father chose our mother as his mistress, he had me—and my magic—sent away.”

“But my mother wouldn’t let that happen.”

“She would send a child to school, yes. And then she died. She left us both, but I was left…” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

“Father would have told me. He didn’t have to keep me.”

Morgause stared into her eyes. “Search yourself, sister.” She placed a cool hand on her cheek. “You know it’s true.”

Morgana considered her father’s temperament. He knew she had magic, and he had acknowledged it, but his disdain for it was why she had received so little training, despite growing up in Camelot. She had met other seers as a child, and the Druids had known she had the gift, that the old gods chose to show her things, but Uther had forbidden she go to them, even when her dreams were troubled.

When Galapas had taken Freya as an apprentice, it had stung because Morgana knew that could have been her position. Galapas was the leader of Camelot’s magical community. Even Uther sought his counsel. Freya had been chosen to follow him, before Merlin had arrived at Camelot. Freya had not spoken about Merlin extensively, but Morgana knew their relationship was complicated.

“His destiny is linked with Arthur’s and Camelot’s, and he will one day be lord of all of us,” Freya had said, a few nights before. Morgana had asked if Freya had seen power like Merlin showed, calling forth light and power itself.

Morgana had been skeptical.

“He is the one we call Emrys. He will take Galapas’ place, not I.”

“But, Freya, you love Camelot and Galapas loves you like a daughter.”

Freya’s eyes were tired, as they so often were. “Let me show you,” she had said. Together, they scried in a big copper bowl. Morgana had seen Arthur in a suit and cape, and Merlin stood at his side. They were older, and clearly full of power, positioned with success, affluence, and benevolence.

“King of Pentacles,” Freya said.

Morgana nodded and whispered, “Queen of Pentacles.” She grasped Freya’s hand. Freya sighed. “You love him—Merlin—don’t you?”

Freya was silent as her eyes cleared. “I love what I see in Merlin, yes.” She looked directly into Morgana’s eyes. “But I love what I see in many people in different ways…” She reached a hand out and ran a finger down Morgana’s cheek. It burned a path on Morgana’s skin that travelled to a place somewhere deep in her chest. “I see many things in you,” she said. “Your power, your grace… and your goodness. You are not lesser than Merlin or your brother.”

Morgana felt her chin quiver. “Can you show me my own path?” she asked.

Freya shook her head. “Your path has not been decided by the gods. You must choose your own way.”

 

In the white stone room, Morgause gestured out the window. “New Segontium will be a city unlike any other. It is both ancient and something entirely new. An industrial stronghold filled with masters of the old religion. We will return the forces of magic to their rightful place in the empire—and the empire itself to its rightful ruler.” She stroked a hand down Morgana’s arm. “A ruler who honors and values magic,” she said triumphantly.

“The empress values magic.”

“The empress is a fool and a child.” Morgause’s eyes flashed, her power shimmering through in her anger.

“The empress knows to listen to her advisors and ministers. If the prime minister—”

Morgause squeezed her arm. “Distrust of magic runs too deep for a political solution. If we were given the place we deserve, think of how much more we could do—how fast our powers could grow as we learned to harness the power of the earth’s magicks. The force of them.”

“You seek to weaponise the earth’s magic, then?”

“I seek to do only what must be done to keep the balance and check the power of those who would see us fail or die.”

“Like my father?”

Morgause stepped over to an end table and picked up a small tray of biscuits, offering them to Morgana. “You must see, Morgana—sister—that you are more powerful, wiser, and _better_ than all of them. We have a gift from the old gods and the earth herself. We must not squander it.”

_Better_ , Morgana thought, taking a biscuit from the tray. It was flakey and buttery with thin lines of rich chocolate. Delicious. “I’m thirsty,” she said.

“Of course you are.” Morgause tugged the bell pull.

When she smiled, Morgana could see all of her teeth.

 

A few hours later, Morgana was given a gown to dress for dinner. It was emerald silk, with layers of lace and pearls. The black stockings and boots also fit perfectly, clearly made for her. A willowy girl did her hair in a complicated mass of curls and twists. Morgause was waiting for her at the foot of a long staircase.

“You look stunning,” Morgause said, taking her by the arm. “I knew the colour would suit you. It is very important to us that you know how happy we are to have you as our guest.”

“You mean prisoner.”

Morgause’s smile was brilliant. “No, sister, you are an honoured guest. You will see.”

In the dining room was a feast. The table was laid out with boar and geese, butter-glazed vegetables and exotic fruits.

Vortigern sat at the table’s head. “My lady Morgana,” he said, rising as she entered. “Welcome to New Segontium.”

It occurred to Morgana that he was a handsome man. His hair had retained some of its colour and had a salt and pepper effect, and his skin was still tight, despite a few wrinkles about the eyes that gave away his age. Morgana curtseyed to him. “Your grace,” she said. It was habit to address a duke thusly, and she was frustrated by the muscle memory. “Are your niece and her husband not in attendance tonight?” she asked.

Vortigern and Morgause exchanged a quick glance, she noticed. “I’m afraid they are away, at present,” Vortigern explained. “My niece has been… unwell; they needed to visit the seaside to take in the airs.”

“Of the Black Sea?”

“The Caspian,”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Morgana wondered how long they had been on holiday, and if the people of Scythia knew that Vortigern, it appeared, had seized control of their land and remade the fortress as his own.

 

That night, Morgause led Morgana to a bedchamber high in a northern tower. “You had a vision at the menhirs, did you not?” She studied Morgana’s face closely. “You were seeing as I approached.”

Morgana was silent.

“What did you see?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Tell me what you saw, Morgana.” Morgause’s look was fierce. “I know you have the gift, sister. As do I.”

“It was a battle.” Morgause nodded. “Arthur and Merlin were fighting, they were battling the white dragon.”

“Vortigern.”

Morgana tried to read Morgause’s eyes, but they were veiled.

“Yes,” Morgana said.”

“Then you know the white dragon defeats the red, and that you will join us to defeat Uther Pendragon.”

Morgana thought of her vision. Arthur fought on horseback, strong and solid in his prime. Merlin stood on a hillside overlooking the battlefield, wielding a staff, its top glowing like starlight. Morgana, in the vision, had ridden on a white dragon that faced down Arthur. As he faced her with a glowing sword, Morgana had pulled forth a bow and fired an arrow, like Diana, into Arthur’s heart. As he fell, Merlin had cried out with a voice like rolling thunder, and the ground beneath her had opened up. A red dragon had come forth, opening impossibly wide jaws, and swallowed them whole.

“I killed Arthur in my vision,” Morgana said in anguish.

“Yes,” Morgause seemed to hiss.

“I killed Arthur,” Morgana whispered, tears falling at last.

“We will do only what must be done,” Morgause said, stroking her hair. “Our power will be restored.”


	12. The Hollow Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes enter the caves and tunnels that will take them closer to New Segontium, Arthur's amulet, and Morgana. They encounter challenges along the way.

Merlin awoke with a headache so terrible it made him vomit, which made it hurt worse. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but felt he was leaning against a broad tree. A fire had been lit nearby, but he was cold. He tried to speak, but only a moan passed his lips.

“Shh,” he heard. He breathed in deeply and was comforted by a now-familiar scent: leather, sweat, and that indefinable aroma of _Arthur_. Merlin hadn’t realized how near Arthur sat, but now he felt his hand on his brow. “Does this hurt?” Arthur asked.

“No…” Merlin rasped. “Back…”

Arthur smoothed his hair from his brow, petting him like a sick child, but Merlin couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the caress. “You really are an absolute idiot,” Arthur said in a low voice. “Charging out full tilt like that.”

Merlin didn’t speak, just hummed a bit noncommittally. The pain in his head had transformed into a dull, pulsing ache, but Arthur’s cool hand on his forehead grounded him. He focused on the sensation and opened his eyes.

They had made camp around the cave entrance. Gwen was dressing a wound on Lance’s head in a similar spot to Merlin’s. Gwaine was stirring a pot over the fire, watching them from the corner of his eye.

“Morgana?” Merlin asked, trying to turn his head.

“Taken,” Arthur said, his jaw tensing. “Morgause took her after she attacked you.” His voice was strained.

“Then we take her back,” Merlin said. His mind raced. What would Morgause want with Morgana, other than bait to set a trap?

“They just vanished, Merlin. Into thin air. What kind of magic is that?”

“Teleportation isn’t unheard of, but she must be powerful. We expected that.” He tried to peer into the cave, but it was too dark.

“There’s no sign of anyone entering the cave, Merlin. No tracks. I think it’s undisturbed… but that’s because it seems to be sealed.”

“Blocked?”

“No, there’s an engraving. An inscription.”

“Let me see.” Arthur helped Merlin to his feet. Merlin wasn’t dizzy, just pained, and the others didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s hand resting on the small of his back as they crept into the cave entrance. Merlin leaned into the warm body offering its support. Arthur’s hand crept around to his hip as the light faded.

Merlin focused his energy and created a ball of light that hovered in front of them.

“How are you doing that without speaking?” Arthur asked.

“There’s a lot of magic here,” Merlin explained. “And I’ve done this so much it has become easy; I could probably do it in my sleep.” They looked up at the tall stone door. The engraving was worn, but clearly legible: _LOQUI AMICUS ET INTRA_.

“I don’t get it,” Arthur complained. “How would it know I’m a friend? And friend of whom?”

Merlin laughed, ignoring the pain that shot through his head. “Brilliant,” he said.

“What?”

“I haven’t seen one of these in ages,” said Merlin. “Since I was a kid. It’s an ancient riddle. The Druids have used it for centuries, and they probably didn’t even come up with it. It’s on doorways that are infinitely old, that I’ve visited with my mum.”

“And you know the solution to the riddle, I assume?” Arthur sounded irritated.

“Of course.” He took a step back and gestured for Arthur to do the same. “ _Drút_ ,” he said. The door shifted, creaked, and slid open to reveal a long, dark corridor.

“What was that?” Arthur squinted into the darkness.

“Friend,” said Merlin. “The old word for friend.”

Arthur looked at him, his face showing something midway between frustration and astonishment. “You are a wonder, Merlin.”

Merlin felt his face heat as he looked at Arthur in the soft light that filled the cave entrance. Arthur’s hand returned to his hip, where it rested gently. It was as if Arthur had cast a fishing line that caught hold in the base of Merlin’s spine and pulled him forward, toward Arthur’s strength and power. He seemed to gleam, golden in the light, the reflection of his flaxen hair. Arthur’s eyes, he saw, were on his lips.

Merlin couldn’t resist running his hand through that golden hair, watching its reflections of the light. “You are…” he began, listening as Arthur’s breath quickened. He watched him lick his lips.

“What?” Arthur asked, stepping impossibly close. “What am I?”

“So beautiful,” Merlin whispered. He felt his pulse racing.

“Ridiculous,” Arthur whispered, lips nearing Merlin’s. All it would take to close the gap, Merlin thought…

“A-hem.” Gwaine, of course. Again.

Arthur spun around so quickly, Merlin thought he heard his neck pop. He tried to not purse his lips. Gwaine’s amused look told him he was failing spectacularly.

“If you’re ready, _your grace_ , dinner is prepared.” He looked into the long dark of the cave. “And then,” he wiggled his eyebrows a bit, “we get to work.”

 

The cave was natural, but it had been hollowed out by someone to widen its corridors and facilitate passage. They moved steadily and quietly, with Arthur in the lead. He held his sword, but kept his pistols holstered. Stealth, he insisted, would be their advantage.

The tunnels were damp, and occasional stalagmites had to be stepped around as they trekked ever onward into the hollow hill. The first sign something was wrong sounded like a rustling. Movement somewhere in the darkness beyond them.

Gwen clutched at Merlin’s arm. “Did you hear that?” she asked. Merlin nodded, and Arthur looked back at him. They had reached a fork in the tunnels.

“Right or left?” muttered Lance. “They look the same.” Both paths were dark and dank, without visible differences. No differences could be sensed by any of the party, so Arthur stepped into the left corridor and started walking.

The paths off the corridor were small compared to the main path, but large enough to fit a man. They met the corridor at strange, acute angles that seemed impossible to access. The rustling sounds were met with the unmistakable noise of water, and Arthur quickened his steps.

The room, when they reached it, was a dead end. Merlin’s first thought was of the time they had wasted. Immediately he shrugged, preparing to return the way they came. Arthur’s gasp stopped him.

When Merlin followed his gaze, he was surprised he had missed it before. A stalactite hung from a cave ceiling that was shockingly high. Beneath it, the stalagmite was unimpressive, save for the gleaming hilt of a sword protruding from it, bedecked with jewels and burnished, despite the obvious age of the place.

Arthur ran his hand over the hilt and it seemed to glow and hum. Merlin was quiet and listened. He knew, somehow, that they were meant to find this sword, and that everything so far had led to this moment. This is right, he thought. “This is your sword,” he said.

Arthur nodded, transfixed. He grasped the hilt with both hands, and with a mighty heave, the stone gave way. He stood, in the light of Merlin’s guiding spheres, which hovered around him in reverence, taking on a mind of their own. He was resplendent. Merlin sank to his knees. “My lord,” he said.

“Excalibur,” said Lance, sinking down beside him. “Arthur, you’ve found—”

Their reverence was cut short by an increase in the rustling, accompanied by some sniffing, and the emergence into the room of two enormous, massive, giant rats.

“Ugh,” said Gwaine. “Wildren.”

“Those rodents are unusually large,” Merlin observed.

“I didn’t believe they truly existed,” said Lance. He passed Arhtur’s old sword to Gwen.

“They do,” said Arthur, swishing Excalibur through the air so fast it seemed to hum and glow brighter. “They do for now.” And he charged.

The wildren were of comparable size, with mammoth teeth and huge claws. Gwaine and Lance launched themselves at the second one as if it their movements were rehearsed. Lance used one katana, and Gwaine had pulled out two long daggers. As Lance swung his blade, the wildren reared up and kicked at Gwaine with unexpected force, knocking him back. He rolled onto his feet as Lance sliced into its side. It let out a terrible noise, and from the tunnel, Merlin heard more of the rustling. Gwen stepped to his side, her hands shaking as she held the sword.

Arthur wielded Excalibur as if it had been made for him. Merlin knew it was the sword of Magnus Maximus, the man who had dreamt of the empire a millennium before its inception. The Druids said it would be wielded again by the once and future king, who would unite all of Albion in a new age of prosperity.

Irrationally, Merlin’s next thought was that, to be king, Arthur would have to marry the empress. And it struck him that he could. He knew her, Merlin was certain. He was noble, his family had been royalty, once. Arthur _could_ be a king of Camelot and ruler of the empire. Merlin’s head renewed its pounding and his chest felt tight.

Of course, he thought. It was only natural that Arthur would marry, and probably to a beautiful woman. It shouldn’t matter. Everyone knew these sorts of… flirtations… were just a common pastime or phase or experimentation for many young men. That had been Will’s explanation at first, back in Ealdor. Of course, things had become more complicated, eventually.

The wildren’s teeth snapped at Arthur as he swung the mighty blade and cleaved the beast’s shoulder. He spun, dodging the crooked fangs, and kicked at its side. With a lunge, he thrust the blade into its side. Blood gushed over the floor in a foul-smelling spurt as Arthur withdrew the blade and the animal shrieked again. The additional rustling grew louder and Merlin heard the clacking of claws on the cave floor.

“We have to get out of here,” Gwen said.

“I know,” Merlin answered, looking about desperately. “ _Fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme. Fromum feohgiftum_ ,” he incanted. Signal lights filled the cavern with a white glow, illuminating the space more fully.

Gwaine embedded his daggers in the second wildren’s back and held on like he was breaking a horse. Lance swung his katana just after, slicing into the monster’s neck as it reared back in outrage. More blood slicked the floor.

Merlin looked at the stalagmite that held Excalibur. “Hand me the sword,” he said to Gwen. He slid the blade into the slot and pushed up on it, like a lever. The door to the corridor slammed shut with a crash and another, high above them, swung open. The sounds of the additional wildren were quieted by the thick stone.

“How did you?” Gwen looked stunned.

Merlin shrugged and smiled.

Arthur slipped on the thick blood as Gwaine and Lance finished the second wildren. His feet slid from beneath him and he landed on his back, heaving in breaths. The first wildren seem to know he fell, despite its cloudy eyes. It lunged at him and Arthur struck up with his blade brutally. Merlin watched, stunned, as it fell onto Excalibur’s point, skewering itself in a violent rush.

The beast collapsed on him, and all was momentarily quiet.

“Arthur?” asked Gwaine. “We haven’t got all day, you know?”

Merlin’s heart only resumed when he heard a groan. “This is just absolutely disgusting,” Arthur complained.

Back to form, Merlin thought. Well done, then.

“Are you going to help then, or not?” Arthur asked. He peered at Merlin from beneath the thing.

Merlin shrugged. “I thought you were supposed to be strong.”

“Oh, for the love of—you know what? Fine. I’ll just—” He pushed at it with arms and legs, trying to roll it over.

Soon, Merlin was doubled over laughing.

“Really not the time, Merlin. Gods. Really? It isn’t—that—funny!” With a final heave, Arthur was free. He lunged at Merlin, getting him in a blood-smeared headlock and Merlin coughed and sputtered from the stench. “Not so funny now, is it?” Arthur ground out as he dug his knuckles into Merlin’s scalp, somehow avoiding the goose egg from earlier. Merlin yelped, twisting his legs around Arthur’s to wrestle him off.

“A-hem.” This time it was Gwen who stopped them, hands on her hips.

They sat on the floor, smeared with the filth, panting, and looked up at her.

“The next door,” Gwen stated, pointing up. “We need to figure out how to get up there.”

They looked up at it. It was a long way up. Merlin was going to have to get creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit goes to JRR Tolkien for the door riddle, of course (and sorry for my poor Latin skills), and William Goldman for ROUSes. 
> 
> Apologies to you all for my cheesy references.
> 
> Also, the sword in stone business here is heavily influenced by Mary Stewart's interpretation. I hope you like it! Thanks for reading!!


	13. The Mithraeum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, Merlin, & company must figure out how to continue through the tunnels without being killed by horrible monsters.

When Arthur held Excalibur aloft, his heart drummed and swelled and his body seemed to vibrate. He felt warm and invigorated, as if they hadn’t been going for over a day, with little sleep the night before.

Everyone in Camelot knew the legend of Caliburn, the sword of Magnus Maximus or Macsen Wledig. With it, the ruler of Albion had freed the land of its foreign occupants and then taken the fight to the continent. No one knew what happened to Maximus after he marched toward Rome, but it appeared somehow he’d ended up in Scythia, far from the landscapes of Arthur’s childhood. Arthur recalled a rare moment with his father, many years before.

“The Pendragon line is directly linked to Maximus. Never forget that the blood of kings runs in your veins,” Uther had told him.

“But the emperor is of a different lineage, father. I don’t understand.”

“The emperor is an old man, Arthur, and he is powerful, yes. But there are many ways to rule men, and more than one man leads this empire and has built it to what it is.”

“Like you?”

Uther had been thoughtful, Arthur remembered. He knew, even as a child, that he wasn’t being told something. “Just remember that it takes many men to build an empire and many men to defend it. But only a few men can inspire and lead those masses, Arthur. Men like Maximus, whose names live on, even now.”

“Like Achilles or Alexander.”

“And, one day, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur had slept that night with his wooden practice sword, dreaming that it would be so.

Caliburn, he had been told, was the weapon to be wielded by the once and future king, and that made little sense. He was not a king and had never been, despite his royal ancestry. He wasn’t even a general in the empire’s army. He had been fortunate enough to maintain a mostly ceremonial position in Camelot and the surrounding areas, where he trained men and was occasionally called on for specialized missions. He had autonomy. When he had been to court or had met with the prime minister, it was generally social but formal: thank yous for slaying a gryffon, that sort of thing.

If he was destined to be a king, he realized, that would require him to marry a queen. The high queen. And while she was lovely and vivacious, Arthur wasn’t sure... He supposed all fifteen or so people in line for the crown before him could die, but that seemed outlandish as well as morbid.

Arthur thought of the last time he’d been to court. He had danced with the queen—the empress—and she seemed to enjoy his company, as he enjoyed hers. But he had never had designs on the throne and hadn’t truly pursued her, just idly flirted, as was typical at a ball. He tried to picture her eyes, remembering if there was any spark there. All he could conjure in his imagination, however, was a liquid blue that sparked gold. Merlin’s eyes. The thought drew him back to the present.

Merlin had filled the chamber with his floating lights. It was a massive cavern with a smooth floor that sloped toward the center. The sound of running water echoed from somewhere behind or beneath the stone walls, but was not visible. The door Merlin had sealed had been the only means of accessing or exiting the room, though there was now the door high above them. Arthur considered the angry wildren behind the first door and thought that yes, they should find a way up.

“Who brought rope?” he asked.

Gwaine made a skeptical noise in his throat. “Look, mate. I know you’re pretty talented, but I don’t think you’re going to be able to climb up a smooth rock face.”

As it happened, Gwaine was right. None of the party was able to scale the wall, which was actually a bit inverted, not even straight.

Merlin stood beside the stalagmite that now sheathed Arthur’s old sword. The stone appeared to be some sort of mechanical contraption that had been covered with the deposit of minerals from the stalactite above. This form was located near the center of the chamber, and Arthur stood beneath it, considering. “If the lower portion is artificial, perhaps the top?” He looked over at Merlin, who nodded, thoughtful. Arthur picked up a loose stone and motioned for the others to take a step back. He reared back and threw the stone at the stalactite. It didn’t move.

“Well done,” said Gwaine.

“Think you can do better, then?” Arthur asked, picking up the stone.

Gwaine snorted and held his hand out. “Come on, Duchess.”

Arthur glared as he passed the stone. “My lady,” he said.

Gwaine shook his head. “It’s only funny when I do it.” He pulled back and let the stone fly. Once again, it bounced off the bulbous rock as if it was nothing. This time, Gwen picked it up. She turned it in her hand.

Lance stretched his hand out to her. “If I may,” he said, smiling smugly at Arthur and Gwaine.

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You may not,” she said. She leaned back and threw. The rock crumbled and plummeted with a tremendous crack.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin’s surreptitious smile. It was Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Right. Well done then,” he said, as Lance and Gwaine just stared, gobsmacked. “It appears to be some sort of pipe.”

“The question is,” Merlin observed, “do we want it to run? What comes through the pipe? Water?”

“Hopefully ale,” said Gwaine.

Arthur rolled his eyes again. “Surely there’s some sort of lever for it. Near the sword, perhaps?”

They examined the lever closely. The sword could not be twisted or moved further. Arthur looked up at the doorway again, increasingly frustrated. Think, he told himself.

“You aren’t good at patience, are you?” asked Merlin. He sat down on the smooth floor, looking up at Arthur through those ridiculous eyelashes.

Focus, thought Arthur. Think.

“It’s fascinating how the minerals can encase the mechanical works like that, isn’t it? I wonder how long this room has been left undisturbed,” Merlin said, running a hand through his hair and pulling absently at his neckerchief. Arthur was momentarily distracted by the pale white of his neck, but then considered his words.

Gwen turned around in a circle, examining the room’s shape and size. “It could almost be a temple,” she said.

Arthur inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he said. “It could.” He took up the stone from before. “Merlin,” he said pointedly. Merlin then rolled _his_ eyes, but nodded and gestured. Arthur threw it at the nearest stalagmite.

“ _Flíeh fǽgð_ ,” Merlin chanted. The rock seemed to take on a life of its own, ricocheting from one structure to the next, busting apart the slick rock. When it finished, Arthur stood in awe.

Four structures stood around the chamber, the carvings worn from a thousand years of damp neglect. The first sculpture appeared half done, with a man emerging from the solid rock, blade in hand. The next showed the man seated beside another man who was radiating light, as if he were the sun itself. Next was a sort of altar, its shape unmistakable in any religion. Finally, the fourth statue showed the man astride a mighty bull, his sword embedded in its neck.

“Mithras,” Arthur whispered.

Lance ran his hand over the sword entering the bull, and Arthur turned away in time to see Guinevere bite her lip, watching. The scene was brutal and violent, but somehow erotic, almost forcing concupiscence from its viewer. The Mithras figure held his head back, rapturous as he fought. Arthur heard Merlin suck in a breath and let it go slowly.

Gwaine broke the silence. “Unexpected, but, again, well done to you both.” He looked from Arthur to Merlin. His eyes, Arthur saw, looked Merlin up and down in a lascivious manner that had Merlin’s face reddening. When he caught Arthur’s glare, his lips curled into an absurdly pleased smile.

“Apparently I’m missing some sort of, er, _manly_ information here,” said Gwen. “Who is Mithras?”

“It’s an old religion,” explained Merlin. “Barely recognized now except, well, in places like Camelot where the old religions still have a foothold.”

“A soldier’s religion,” added Lance. “Even in the north, there are still whispers of Mithraism. Just not near the vicar, of course.”

“Of course, you heathens at the wall are into all sorts of pagan rituals,” Gwaine teased.

“I’ve walked through your hollow hills, Gwaine, and met the people there. Don’t you tell me about pagans.”

Merlin stood up and they quieted. “It’s somehow connected,” he said. “A mechanism of some sort.” He waved his hand and his signal lights spread out, illuminating the walls of the chamber.

Arthur walked toward the chamber’s outside, noticing a ridge in the smooth floor that he had ignored before. It encircled the altar and statues. “Look,” Arthur said, pointing to it.

“And up here,” Merlin gestured up, several feet above their heads, where Arthur could just make out worn bas relief embellishments he hadn’t noticed before. The symbols looked esoteric, yet familiar. Merlin laughed. “Zodiac,” he said. He spun around. “Yes. Aries, the ram.” He pointed.

“The sword points to it,” Arthur observed. “So that’s important?”

“But that makes no sense,” said Lance. They all turned to him. “Mithras and the bull should be the… center—the focus—of the Mithraeum.”

Merlin grinned, just as Gwen said, “Then we move it.”

Merlin stood beside the bull sculpture and stretched out his arms, hands facing downward. His eyes turned gold beneath his furrowed brow. “ _Hwyrft_ ,” he commanded.

The floor within the circular ridge turned, and the sound was terrible. Creaking and groaning was met with an increased sound of rushing water. Merlin stopped it, his eyes returning to their piercing blue as the circle was aligned. A moment passed, and then water began to pour from the pipe in a rush. They stepped outside the ridge, as it flowed and pooled within the ring.

“Now what?” asked Gwaine.

“It isn’t getting any deeper,” Gwen noted, her eyes tracking the flow.

Arthur leaned forward. “Look, there must be some sort of drain.” In the center, he could make out a small whirlpool.

“But where is it going?” asked Gwaine. He pushed at a dead wildren with his foot, making a face. Then he seemed to shake and nearly fall over. “What was that?” he asked.

Merlin smiled at Arthur with one of his eye-crinkling grins. “It’s moving.”

Arthur looked up and realized they were rising. The doorway grew closer, slowly but surely. He smiled back and clapped Merlin on the shoulder. He let himself take in the sensation of victory, and then turned to the others. “Right. Prepare yourselves. We know not what other beasts may lie beyond that doorway.” They drew their weapons and waited.

 

The passageway beyond the upper door was narrow and winding, and noticeably uphill. They walked in silent, single file, save for their laboured breathing. The tunnel narrowed, gradually, and shrank in height until they were bent down, shuffling along. Arthur was unsure how much farther they could go when he found the path abruptly ended at a stone door. He held his pistol and pushed.

Merlin clutched the back of his jacket as the door swung open, letting in a rush of cold. They stepped out.

Smooth marble and copper with a green patina met their eyes. “A mausoleum,” said Merlin. He ran a hand over a sarcophagus. “Or crypt.” He pointed at the staircase at the end of the room. He raised an eyebrow. “Another temple?”

It was a temple, with multiple altars this time. They paused long enough for Merlin to wave his hand and light the lamps “for whatever gods may live here.” Arthur led them outside.

They were near the top of the mountain, on the other side. Below, they saw a small village outside the wall of a magnificent fortress.

“And now we walk?” asked Gwen.

Gwaine shook his head. “Look.” Beside the temple was the rusted remains of some sort of ski or gondola lift. It ran in segments, crisscrossing down into the valley.

They all looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, which, obviously, he had. “That looks ready to collapse,” said Arthur.

Gwaine just crossed his arms over his chest. “Scared, Duchess?” His mouth quirked up on one side.

Arthur took in the look and looked back at the broke down machine. “Never,” he said.

Merlin sighed. “Here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about Mithraism, I learned from Mary Stewart and the interwebs. My understanding is that a Mithraeum would probably not be a circular room, but it would be underground in a cave or basement. The bull image would be at the front/center of the chamber.  
> Also, Excalibur = Caliburn in the books. These may have been different swords originally; this seems to have evolved from the Vulgate Cycle and Post-Vulgate Cycle to the modern age. Maximus was actually killed when he invaded Italy IRL (womp womp). My librarianism is showing through with the info-dump so I'll stop there.
> 
> I love puzzles and had to include one (I actually have another puzzle planned for later on, assuming my outline is followed). Just so you know, there is more romantical stuff coming up, especially in chapter 15 (this is 13). We have to get down the mountain before we can... rest... More Gwaine-Arthur competition in chapter 14 from Merlin's POV, as well as derring-do and such.
> 
> Like winter, sex is coming.


	14. The Cable Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shortcut is taken down the mountain, for better or for worse.
> 
> Merlin continues to fret about "once and future king."

The thing about Arthur, Merlin thought as he tied his scarf tighter, was that he couldn’t let himself be outdone. It must have been a result of having Uther Pendragon as a father. The natural consequence of that alpha male upbringing was an unnatural urge to stamp out weakness, a commitment to virility that drowned out common sense. So when Gwaine decided some foolish act of bravery looked fun (which seemed to be his primary impetus), Arthur couldn’t let it go. Merlin had already determined this play was near the heart of their friendship, somewhere quite near their genuine regard and affection for one another.

It was infuriating.

“I don’t even know what this thing _is_ ,” said Merlin.

“It’s a lift,” Arthur said, approaching what looked like a run-down shack with large cables, gears, and other components coming from it. “For the mountain. They’ve started popping up—”

“Let me guess,” Merlin interrupted. “Posh resort chateaus in the Alps and whatnot.”

“Well, not _in_ the chateaus, although yes, they do have—”

“Enough,” Merlin huffed.

“It’s a ropeway or um… cable car,” Arthur explained. “A cable or two steadies the carriage and another cable pulls it along.” He pushed at the door to the shack and it fell in with a crash, hinges crumbled. “Ah. Well.” He looked at Merlin, who was shaking his head in disbelief. “They’re quite good for hauling things, Merlin, really.”

“Maybe hauling _things_ , not people. _Things_ do not _die_ when they plummet fifty meters to the side of a mountain.”

Gwaine was pulling down on the car docked at the shack. “More like thirty. This seems solid.”

“No, no it does not. It looks like it is more rust than metal.”

“Oh, don’t be such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur complained. He looked quickly to Gwen. “No offense, of course. See Merlin? Gwen is fine with it.”

“I am?” she asked.

Arthur brushed his hands on his pants. “This will make our journey a day faster, which means less time for them to hurt Morgana.” And that was it, really. There could be no argument amid such circumstance. The amulet could wait, but none of them knew what Morgana might be faced with.

Gwaine was doing heaves on the cable car, which was now swinging about. He dropped down. “Exactly. Let’s on with it.” Merlin could see the mere idea of the journey was exciting Gwaine, who came up and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Merlin. Perfectly safe.” And as if he had cast a spell with his words, the bottom fell out of the cable car with a swift crash.

Merlin blinked a few times and glared from Gwaine to Arthur. Gwaine pulled himself away, sheepish, but Arthur just frowned and looked critically at the line. “Looks like there’s more carriages coming around. We’ll just pull the next one.”

Merlin looked at the others, sure he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t gone mental, but it seemed he was. They stepped into the shack over the collapsed remnants of the door.

“I don’t understand how it would be in such disrepair,” said Gwen, brushing off a window that overlooked the valley.

Lance helped her wipe it with his gloved hands. “It seems this temple isn’t visited often.”

Merlin shook his head, coming to Arthur’s side at a motor near the boarding deck. “That temple is of an old religion and I doubt it has many followers who come here. And maybe they don’t prefer this mode of travel.” He gestured to the monstrous metal wheel outside the shack, and the gears and levers attached.

“Well,” said Arthur. “Let’s get this to rights.” He pumped water into the boiler and checked that the water was flowing to correct levels in the engine.

Merlin watched him, fascinated. “You learned this on _The Pelican_?”

“Believe it or not, Merlin, I did have tutors about when I was younger.”

“Oh I’m certain. I’m just shocked you listened to any of them.”

Arthur scratched at his head, ignoring the comment. “Are we in mid-gear? Gwaine, is there coal or wood in there?”

“Yes, and coal,” Gwaine answered. Merlin watched them work, side by side, as they twisted and adjusted the motor. He stood back and watched Arthur bend down to add fuel to the bunker, trousers taut across his backside. It was unnerving, Merlin thought, that this man could excel at so many things and look so absurdly good while doing them. His mind traveled back to the last night on the airship. They had stood outside Arthur’s cabin door, barely awake. Arthur’s features had been soft in the flickering gaslights. Merlin had traced his fingers gently down Arthur’s cheek, delirious after hours of sharing secrets and dreams.

“When you look at me like that,” Arthur had whispered, capturing Merlin’s hand with his own, “I feel like… I don’t know. Like I can do anything.” He had let out a shaky breath. “It… hurts, a bit. Has for days now, somewhere here.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “This morning.”

But Merlin had been too tired to think about the morning beyond the blissful feeling of Arthur’s warm skin and wet mouth. “Let’s just sleep on it, yeah?” he said, taking both of Arthur’s hands in his own. “I should probably…” he nodded toward his door.

For a moment, Arthur just stared at him, still. “I find myself wanting your company, Merlin. Even…” he trailed off, swallowing. “Not discussing this morning, then, but stay. Please. Tonight. What’s left of it.”

Merlin had looked at the door, and when he looked back, Arthur’s eyes showed something like fear. It was that flash of vulnerability that did him in. He twisted the door handle and followed Arthur into the dark.

“I didn’t like you,” Merlin whispered in the blue-black night. “I thought you were a bully. And a prat, obviously. Didn’t know why everyone likes you so much.”

“I knew,” Arthur sighed as they fell asleep. “I knew why everyone loves you.”

 

Merlin lit the firebox, using the same enchantments he used on _The Pelican_. The cable car, assuming it survived this journey, would run until someone stopped it. They passed around bread and dried meat as they waited for the boiler to boil. Arthur studied the mountainside. “It looks like this will take us near the village. We’ll walk the remainder, and put up at a tavern tonight. See if there’s news from the fortress.”

Once the boiler was ready, Arthur adjusted valves and pumped in more water, and Merlin enchanted these levels, too, as he had aboard the ship.

When Arthur pushed the engine into gear, the noise was somewhere between a wounded dragon and a knight jousting in rusted armour. It creaked and moaned as the steam-powered pistons pushed the components into motion, turning the great wheel. The broken car floated off, dropping loose pieces as it went.

“We won’t all fit in one carriage,” said Lance.

“You’ll all go first, and I’ll follow behind,” said Arthur.

“Nonsense,” said Gwaine. “I’ll stay with you.”

“You should go first, really; this was your idea,” argued Arthur.

“I’ll stay with you,” said Merlin.

When the second car came around, Gwaine, Gwen, and Lance climbed in. “See?” Gwaine called over the Merlin. “No problem, mate!”

The tramline was slow, but much faster than picking their way down icy rock, crisscrossed by gullies and streams. When the next car arrived, Arthur and Merlin climbed in carefully. Merlin was torn between careful appraisal of the rusted metal and pretending it didn’t exist.

“Really, the rust should be a layer on the iron. It shouldn’t be affecting the integrity,” said Arthur, pressing gingerly around his seat.

“I know. Let’s just not talk about it, okay?” Merlin watched the line ahead, where the other car swung gently as it slid along with the cable.

The sound of the engine grew faint as they traveled, and soon they couldn’t hear it at all. Arthur tilted his head back and shut his eyes. Merlin studied his reposed featured. “We’re going to get her back,” he told him. “She’s going to be okay.”

Arthur let out a deep breath. “She’s only here because of me. We already lost Will, Merlin. I can’t—I can’t lose another.”

“You won’t. We won’t. You’re going to go after her, and I’ll be there, at your side, the whole way.”

Arthur raked a hand through his hair, looking at Merlin. He nodded, pursing his lips a fraction. “Right,” he said, shifting his weight.

At first, Merlin wasn’t sure what the sound was. It was too loud and metallic to be bones popping. When he identified the sound as bolts snapping, it was obvious, given the circumstances. Had there been more time for introspection, he would have been embarrassed. As it was, however, he only had time to register the look of horror on Arthur’s face before lunging.

As the floor collapsed, Arthur grabbed hold of the bench. His hand was twisted at a terrible angle, and his legs swung wildly above the treetops and rocks below. Merlin had clasped on to the upper frame of the carriage and pressed his feet into each side of the enclosed space, bracing himself. He watched as the floor struck the ground, breaking apart without ceremony. Arthur’s hand slid lower on the seat frame, and Merlin watched in dread as the metal slowly began to bend.

“Arthur, no! Hold on,” Merlin called. His voice was loud and full of panic; despite the perilous situation, the ride was steady and quiet, the day still and cold. He swung himself over to the framework above Arthur. Arthur’s steel blue eyes were fierce and determined. Merlin pressed his feet into the frame and fixed his hold and then slowly, carefully, reached down to Arthur. “Come on,” he said.

Arthur’s jaw was tight as he swung up, slightly, and caught Merlin’s wrist.

“Now what?” Arthur ground out.

“Gods you’re heavy,” Merlin said, pulling up, voice strained.

Arthur’s free hand grasped at the carriage frame as Merlin groaned. “Are you saying I’m fat?” Arthur asked.

“Not yet,” Merlin panted.

“Why you—” Arthur started, grabbing hold with his other hand. He mimicked Merlin’s position. Then he laughed, tossing his head back as his chest shook.

“You’re mad,” Merlin stated. “Absolutely mad.”

“You saved my life,” Arthur returned.

“Again.”

“Again.”

They looked at each other, catching their breaths, and then at the other car. Gwaine’s head poked out the window and he was calling back to them, gesturing. Merlin poked his head out the miraculously still in-tact window and called back that they were fine, all told.

The remainder of the ride was uncomfortable and nerve-wracking, and it was late afternoon when they docked.

Merlin’s arms felt like lead. Achy, stiff lead. He and Arthur pitched themselves out of the car and rolled onto the platform, leaning heavily on each other. Merlin’s arm shook as he reached for the apple Gwen offered, so he gave up and lowered it.

“We’re finding a different way back,” said Arthur.

“Without wildren, too, please,” said Merlin.

Gwaine reached a hand down to both of them and heaved them up. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

 

The tavern they stopped at was on the outskirts of the village. It was a busy place, with patrons—clearly travelers—speaking all manner of languages. Arthur spoke to the keeper in Russian first, which shocked Merlin, who hadn’t realized his education was actually _that_ thorough.

“He has two rooms,” Arthur told them. “We’ll have to decide how to split up.”

“I won’t need one,” said Gwaine. He flashed a rakish grin at a maid setting drinks down nearby. Her cheeks turned pink as she smiled back, eyes tracing the length of him. He winked and she giggled, turning away.

They sat at a round table near the corner beside a roaring fireplace and let themselves thaw. Merlin sat first, and Arthur slid in beside him as if it was natural: Merlin to his right like a trusted advisor. When Arthur twisted Excalibur about, adjusting it at his side, Merlin remembered the prophecy and its implications, and he pulled his leg away when their knees touched. It would be better, he thought, to pull away now, before all bridges had been crossed. It would be better to be a friend, rather than whatever he had thought could be possible. And, truly, what could be possible between a future duke and a sorcerer peasant?

Merlin took a fierce bite of the rabbit dish in front of him. It was stringy, but flavorful. The spices were rich, with a hint of the exotic, but it was disappointing overall. Merlin was lost in his thoughts, and he didn’t realize he was being spoken to until Arthur nudged him.

The man was wizened and grey. “Greetings, young warlock,” he said. “At last, you have come.”

Merlin was startled. “Hello. I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“My name is Kilgharrah,” said the man. “I’m here to help you fulfill your destiny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not an engineer or mechanic, and I apologize if any of my steam engine terminology is off.  
> Also, cable cars/tramways/ropeways/gondola lifts are awesome. Some of them are quite long. Since steampunk implies alternate history, I'm taking some liberties with what technology may have been around long enough to get rusty and run down.


	15. We Will Never Be the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the tavern, there is much talk of destiny and little sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Mature content in this chapter; decisions are made by consenting adults.

Before Arthur started spending time with Merlin, the thought of a kooky old man sidling up to him in a tavern and spouting about destiny would have been inconceivable. But Arthur had now spent several days (and had it really been only days, not months or years?) with Merlin, so when Kilgharrah spoke to them, seeming to know exactly who Merlin—or Emrys, as he put it—was, Arthur just leaned back in his seat and took it in.

Merlin had also seemed less than surprised. “How do you intend to do that?” he asked the man. “And exactly what destiny are we talking about?”

Kilgharrah had smiled a grin that was, frankly, a bit disturbing, and he looked at Arthur as if he was planning a meal that would feature him as the main course. Arthur felt himself frown. “You seek to stop the witch and the white dragon. I will help you. You _must_ stop them before they corrupt your sister, Arthur Pendragon. Her fate is undetermined, but one path leads to your death.”

Arthur crossed his arms across his chest. “How do you know this?”

Kilgharrah laughed. He looked at Merlin. “I see you are the brighter half of the coin.”

“What coin?” Arthur asked, as Merlin said, “Wait, what?”

Kilgharrah laughed even more at this confusion. He looked at Arthur. “You are two halves of a whole, young Pendragon.”

“Me and Merlin?”

Apparently he was hilarious, because this question was met by yet more laughter.

Merlin rested his hands on the table on either side of his plate. “You say Morgana is okay—that she can be saved?”

“Yes, for now, her path is unclear.”

“But we may die rescuing her?”

“That is not what I said.”

Arthur cut in. “Why can’t you bloody seers ever just say what you mean?”

Kilgharrah glared at him and Merlin placed a hand on his arm.

“Morgana may be corrupted?” asked Merlin. “That seems impossibly unlikely.”

“Family is a strong pull.”

Arthur was lost. “You mean _I’m_ going to turn her?”

Merlin’s brow was creased. “I thought her mother was dead.”

“Mother, yes,” said Kilgharrah. “And you, Arthur Pendragon, could no more turn evil than you could turn into an actual dragon. No. I speak of her sister.”

“Morgause?” guessed Merlin.

Kilgharrah just nodded once. They took in this new information. Arthur and Morgana had spent so long as a unit, they and their father, that this seemed impossible. Improbable, Arthur corrected himself. He thought of Merlin calling forth lightning and reminded himself that very little was impossible.

“So what can _you_ tell us about this destiny?” he asked. Merlin looked irritated, but leaned forward a bit as Kilgharrah took a drink.

“Emrys, they say, will be the most powerful warlock to ever live.” He paused. “I have heard this prophecy, though I have not seen it. And Arthur Pendragon is the once and future king. This is known.” Arthur started to speak, but Merlin squeezed his arm to stop him, and Kilgharrah continued. “The unity of these two parts is a harbinger of a golden age in which magic and man exist in harmony.”

“But I’m not a king,” said Arthur, unable to control himself. “I am _not_ a king. I have no desire to be king.”

“You will be a great ruler of men, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“And you, Emrys, will be his guiding light, his compass, his harbour.”

At that, Gwaine snorted, reminding Arthur they weren’t alone.

“You said you can help us,” said Lance. “How?”

Kilgharrah took another drink, and for a moment, Arthur thought perhaps he was really just a daft old drunk. Then he felt Caliburn, heavy at his side, and remembered. The thought was also heavy and sobering. This was _destiny_ , he thought. And Kilgharrah had not seemed to speak metaphorically; no talk of Caliburn had ever been.

King. His mind raced.

Kilgharrah was speaking, so Arthur pulled his mind back to the present. “The tunnel leads to the dungeon. Once there, you’ll have to break out.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Merlin, as if he broke out of dungeons regularly.

“The entrance is in the abbey crypt.”

“Of course it is,” Merlin sighed.

Arthur allowed himself a grim smile. Action, he thought. This, I can do. Prophecy left him feeling unsettled and raw. But he had a mission to complete: rescue Morgana and find his amulet. And then return home. _King_. The thought invaded. _Merlin_. The prospect of home was no longer as simple as it had been.

 

“You know,” said Merlin, as they finished their ale, “seers are actually quite rare—the genuine ones, anyway.”

Arthur cocked a brow. “Then why can’t we seem to escape them?”

Merlin grinned, eyes crinkling. “I have no idea.” And they all laughed at it, then, the destiny, the mission, the absolute madness. “And how long has he been in this tavern, waiting for us?” Merlin asked.

“A few more mugs, and I’ll make you a prophecy, too,” said Gwaine.

 

The chivalrous thing, Arthur thought, would be to give Gwen one room, and share the other with Merlin and Lance. Gwaine had wandered away for a dice game with a few traders from the Far East, bidding them goodnight with a wink.

“I cannot leave the lady Guinevere unguarded and unprotected for the night in this strange place,” said Lance. He decided he would sleep on the floor in her quarters. Arthur took in her blush and thought sure, floor. Merlin beamed at them in a way that made Arthur’s heart do something funny, and when Merlin caught Arthur’s eye, his face fell. Arthur’s stomach twisted.

“We should get some sleep,” he said, leading them up to the rooms.

 

The tavern was primitive, so the room was lit only by a fire in the hearth and a few old lamps and candles. The wide plank floor was swept clean, however, and the bed looked dressed with fresh linens. The room was cast in a burnished orange glow that was warm and inviting.

Arthur bolted the door and took off his sword belt, jacket, and holsters. When he was down to his shirtsleeves, he looked at Merlin, who sat on a chair by the fireplace, watching him. He slid his arms out of his outer layers absently, and gestured to the seat across from him.

In the diffused light, the angles of Merlin’s face seemed to glow. Arthur watched him blink a few times as he sat, quiescent and luminous.

“How much of this—this destiny thing—did you know about?” Arthur asked.

“Not enough,” Merlin said, and Arthur realized his eyes were full of pain. He searched for words.

“I think we have to talk about it, Merlin.”

“I know,” was the only response. The face was guarded again.

Arthur let out a heavy sigh. “The entire thing—Caliburn, Excalibur, whatever—doesn’t make sense. I have never wanted that kind of…”

“Responsibility?”

“Power.”

“You _have_ power, Arthur. One need only watch you to see that. It’s, it’s—”

“Impressive?” Arthur teased.

“Infuriating.” Merlin let out a faint smile. “Impressive.” He nodded reluctantly and echoed Arthur’s sigh. “Intoxicating. I have no doubt you could be king—and a great one.” He looked up at Arthur through his heavy fringe of lashes.

“But there’s the rub…”

“The queen—the empress. You know her, yeah? And she does need to marry, at some point.” The pain was back in Merlin’s eyes.

“The last time I saw her, I swear, I thought she was in love with her prime minister. I mean _everyone_ thought she was. Is. It was like Guinevere and bloody Lancelot, can’t-hide-it, all-out-there.”

“They’d never let her marry him. He’s too old and, well, the politics,” Merlin observed.

“She’s the empress. The high queen can do what she damn well wants.” Arthur was frustrated. “Which isn’t me. We’re friends, I suppose. Not close.”

“She’d risk a coup?”

“I don’t know, Merlin, I—” he cut himself off because his voice was rising. He stood up and paced. “Did Galapas and Freya never mention this?”

“You know how vague they are about everything.”

“But you’ve known you are Emrys, the Druid bloody messiah, forever.”

“That was different. That’s more of a power thing, a magic thing. Those in the old religion needed to ensure my path was started.”

“I thought you were supposed to be training to be a healer.”

“Exactly. And poorly. But _not_ a soldier or politician, see? Or advisor.”

“Harbour.” Arthur felt his face soften as he watched Merlin process the word. His blue eyes met Arthur’s, full of unspoken things. Arthur wet his lips and saw Merlin’s eyes dart to them, furtively. “Merlin, look,” Arthur said, pulling the chair closer to Merlin as he sat back down. “If you know anything more about this, don’t hide it from me. Please.” He reached a hand out and placed it on Merlin’s leg. Merlin covered it with his own, his thumb sliding up Arthur’s in an unconscious caress.

“When I learned we had some sort of destiny, I thought it was impossible.”

“I’m learning to think things are improbable, not impossible,” said Arthur.

“Yes, well, the point is, as I have seen who you are, these past weeks—”

“Days, really.”

“Is it?” Merlin paused, thinking. He made a small noise and a face. “Days, then. I have… _seen_ you. And now that I _know_ you…” His hand tightened on Arthur’s. “No destiny, no matter how grand, would surprise me for you. And I will gladly—I will proudly—stand by your side in any capacity you want.” He seemed to shudder as he breathed deeply. “However you want me.”

Arthur knew Merlin must be aware of how his words sounded, spoken softly in the amber-lit room. He felt himself clutch firmly at Merlin’s thigh, his fingers open and pulling a bit. “How I want you…” Arthur whispered. He felt his body stir at the thought and the way Merlin’s breath seemed to catch. He let himself look down to confirm that yes, Merlin was also affected by the moment, the light, and Arthur’s hand.

Merlin stood up abruptly and moved away. He ran his hand down Caliburn where Arthur had sat it across a table. “It is beautiful,” Merlin said, eyes downcast.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur said. And without further thought, he rose up and crossed the room. He placed a palm on Merlin’s shoulder and pushed him around so his back was against the wall. He pressed his body against Merlin’s slowly, feeling the evidence of his desire against his hip as he slotted their legs together. Arthur let his mouth hover above Merlin’s barely-parted lips for a moment, two moments, and then leaned down to run his lips across Merlin’s neck. He pulled at the thick neckerchief until it fell away, and he traced his tongue along Merlin’s collar bone, fingers making work of his shirt buttons.

Merlin’s moan ran down his spine and settled in his gut as his fingers found Arthur’s hair. He put a hand on the nape of Arthur’s neck and pulled at him, so Arthur captured Merlin’s lips with his own; destiny be damned.

Arthur tugged at Merlin’s braces and splayed his fingers wide across his chest, relishing the way the muscles beneath his hands seemed to tense and jump under his touch as his lips and tongue claimed Merlin’s mouth in an obscene kiss.

Merlin’s tongue explored Arthur’s mouth, too, as he pulled Arthur’s shirt free from his trousers. One hand quickly undid his buttons as the other pressed into the small of his back and Arthur felt himself groan into Merlin’s mouth. When Merlin pulled his shirt free, it caught on Arthur’s wrists and they both laughed until Merlin’s deft fingers undid his cufflinks, and he pressed chaste kisses along his shoulder that became increasingly filthy as they reached his elbow and the shirt was discarded.

Merlin’s shirt swiftly followed and they stood, Arthur’s arms braced against the wall, his hips barely moving against Merlin’s. He was straining against his trousers almost painfully.

“Merlin,” he whispered, “is this okay? I want to be sure.”

Merlin pressed his hand against Arthur’s heart. “When you marry her,” Merlin said, his voice husky, low, “it will destroy me.”

“Never,” Arthur rasped, his hands finding the lean muscles of Merlin’s back. He stroked up and down, but waited for Merlin’s acquiescence before continuing the kiss.

Merlin’s pupils were wide, his eyes dark. “Yes,” he whispered, and a single tear traced down his cheek.

Their kiss was frantic as they gave into it, submitting to each other, to the passion that was nearly overwhelming and just barely controllable.

Boots were discarded in a rush and trousers followed, and it was Merlin who pushed Arthur back on the bed and pulled gently at the laces of his smalls, edging them off and then staring, for a brief moment, as Arthur’s erection was let free. When his hand wrapped around it, Arthur’s breath left him. Merlin, his own breathing ragged and laboured, did not hesitate. He kneeled by the bed and took Arthur in his mouth. His tongue swirled around the head and Arthur made a sound that was guttural and wild. He tried to stop himself from pumping his hips as Merlin’s clever mouth pulled back and he ran his tongue along Arthur’s length, faintly nibbling along the underside.

“I want… to _see_ you,” Arthur managed to say, pulling at Merlin’s arms. He sat up and divested Merlin of his remaining garments, hissing a breath as he watched Merlin’s own hardness come free, its wetness glistening at the tip, and Arthur felt compelled to taste it. He wondered at himself, at this lasciviousness that was heretofore unknown, and he bit his lip and smiled up into Merlin’s face, which seemed almost wracked with a painful desire. He didn’t think it was possible, but he felt himself swell even more, his erection lifting a bit as he reached for Merlin. He pressed a kiss against his stomach and stroked his length, and then reached a hand around to squeeze at his rear as he gave into temptation and took him in his mouth.

It was new to Arthur, the feeling of Merlin in his mouth, but he licked and sucked and _listened_ as Merlin made increasingly tortured noises in his throat.

“If you don’t stop soon,” Merlin gasped, “this is going to be over quickly.”

Arthur pulled back, and Merlin crawled onto the bed. Arthur wiped at his mouth, and they leaned back on the pillows. Merlin kissed him, then, so deeply it was difficult to think, to remember his name amidst the thought of _yes_ and _Merlin_ , and their hands on each other.

“I want you…” Merlin said, his voice broken and wrecked.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “Anything. Everything. Gods, Merlin.”

“I want you to take me.”

The noise Arthur made was untamed, uncivilized. “How?” he asked, and Merlin took Arthur’s fingers in his mouth, sucking on them in a wet, slick slide. When he pressed them to his entrance, Arthur felt his vision narrow, and his mind focused on the tightness. He breathed deep to pull himself back from the brink as Merlin’s gasps and moans registered and he slid his free hand down Merlin’s abdomen and then stroked him as he relaxed. Arthur moved tentatively, but then added a finger, and then two fingers, amidst Merlin’s eager noises.

“No oil,” Merlin gasped. “Need to get you slick.” He twisted himself and pulled Arthur back into his mouth, and then slicked his hand over Arthur’s erection, mixing his spit with Arthur’s fluids.

“Can’t wait much longer,” Arthur said, feeling himself draw tight beneath Merlin’s hand.

Merlin leaned back. “Come on,” he said, guiding Arthur into position.

As Arthur pressed into Merlin, his mind was flooded and emptied at once. The sensation as he slowly, shallowly thrusted, was indescribable, but when Merlin relaxed around him, the slickness spread, and Arthur was fully sheathed, he couldn’t help but go still. “Merlin,” he whispered.

“Arthur.”

They stared at each other, and Arthur felt his own eyes fill with something like tears, except he felt bliss and completion, and it was only when one slid down his cheek that he let himself move.

And when he moved, he couldn’t stop. The noises they made, their bodies connected, were unbearably lewd, and the thought of it, or what his racing mind could process, cut straight to the part of his brain that was animalistic and barbaric. Merlin’s cries and frantic moans of “Yes” and “Arthur” and “That” as Arthur knew he found a spot that was _right_ had him shaking and he wasn’t in control of his voice or breathing. His hips pumped him into Merlin and they clung to each other. He reached a hand down and pulled. Merlin’s orgasm, the clench of it, took him over the edge.

When Arthur came, the world went white and gold. They had stood on a precipice, and Merlin clung to him and pitched them over. Arthur felt nothing save their mirrored breathing and tumultuous heartbeats, both fast, ferocious.

It was entirely new.

They panted, Arthur collapsed on Merlin. Neither seemed capable of any motion save the dying echoes of the aftershocks as their bodies still trembled.

When Arthur pulled himself to the side, their eyes found each other.

I love him, Arthur realized. He looked at Merlin, saying nothing. He loves me, he thought. And before he fell asleep he thought, we will never be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Mom! (waves)
> 
> Note: The best sex is always safe sex between two (or however many) consenting parties. You should not engage in unprotected sex of any sort unless you have made a deliberate and thoughtful decision to do so. You should also not engage in anal sex without proper lubrication because, as Spouse says, "That sounds uncomfortable for both parties." While bodily fluids can work in a jam, it is not advised.
> 
> Another Note: I have never written anything like this before and it was SO MUCH FUN so I really appreciate your support and time. Writing the sexy bits was an absolute blast. I'm considering, after chapter 20, doing a small piece from Gwen's POV. I think there's some interesting stuff going on in that other room...


	16. Galahad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, they follow Kilgharrah's advice and seek out the abbey tunnel.

Merlin awoke slowly. His body was curled against Arthur’s back and he was warm despite the chill of early morning. The fire had died down over night, and Merlin thought of fortifying it, but decided he was too comfortable to move. He pressed himself into Arthur instead, chest to shoulder blades, hips to bum, and relished the knowledge he could put his hands anywhere. He took a deep breath and savored the scent of Arthur, running his face along the back of his neck.

Arthur let out a throaty noise and nuzzled into his pillow. “Rise and shine,” Merlin said softly, running a hand down Arthur’s arm and wrapping it around his chest.

Arthur just groaned and shook his head.

“Up and at ‘em,” Merlin said, grinning against Arthur’s neck. Arthur rolled onto his stomach and turned his head to look at Merlin, one eye still closed. “Good morning,” Merlin whispered.

Arthur just made a contented noise and reached out to cup Merlin’s cheek.

“Ready to storm the castle?” Merlin asked, leaning into Arthur’s touch.

“Breakfast.”

 

The farther they walked into the town, the more Merlin could see something was wrong. The first sign was subtle. The town was busy, but not the thriving commercial center a town with its evident trade connections should be. Rather than traders meeting in the streets to hail each other and deal, the people around them looked troubled and harried, hustling through the streets showing unmistakable signs of poverty. Moreover, they looked uneasy and, Merlin could see, afraid.

Gwen was the first to comment. “Something isn’t right,” she said. They just nodded in response amidst the quiet labourers and tradespeople.

The abbey was smaller than many at home, but still grand. The spires seemed to shine with gold-coloured paint, but the effect was cold, not welcoming. The murals inside were also grand, but Merlin found them garish and overbearing. Lance genuflected and crossed himself as they entered and Merlin waited to feel the familiar tug of the holy place. Something was there, but it didn’t reach out to him, so he nodded, instead, at the altar and apse as they crossed the nave.

“Доброе утро.” The priest who hailed them was young, with lush ebony skin.

“Доброе утро,” Arthur responded.

“Ah,” the priest said. “English?”

Arthur smiled. “If you please. My friends are unfamiliar with your language.”

The priest looked at each of them, making eye contact and smiling. He wore a long black cassock in the style of the Jesuits, and his long hair was braided and pulled back. “Greetings, Father,” Merlin said.

The man nodded to him and gave a wry smile. “I see you travel with terrible purpose,” he said, gesturing to their arms. “Need I fear for my parishioners?”

“No,” Merlin assured him. “We are just passing through.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” the priest said. “You do not visit the abbey to pray, or worship, or seek absolution.” He stared into Merlin’s eyes. “So tell me. Why have you come?”

“Lord Vortigern has taken my friend’s sister,” said Lancelot, stepping forward. Merlin watched the priest’s face as he processed the words.

“He is no friend of yours?” Merlin asked.

The look that crossed the priest’s face was fleeting, but served as an answer.

Merlin nodded. “We come from Camelot, in Albion. I am Merlin and this is Arthur, the marquess of Tintagel, commander of the duke’s armies and defender of the empire.”

“I am Galahad,” said the priest. “Welcome to New Segontium.”

More complete introductions were made over an early luncheon. “How long has Vortigern been in Scythia?” asked Arthur.

“Years,” Galahad explained. “At first we welcomed the uncle of Lady Rowena.” His face softened as he mentioned her. “No one knew or expected such cruelty from her kin—or suspected her husband capable of it—until Vortigern’s power was unmatched.”

“King Ateas, he is complicit?” Merlin asked.

“Indeed. The people have never taken to him like his father, but had hope when he married that he would soften, be more fair and just.” Galahad adjusted his cassock. “They were wrong. Ateas is both cruel and weak. Vortigern began taking over behind the throne quickly. My brothers and I were ordered to push an agenda that eased his takeover, and our resistance was met with swift and brutal punishment. It’s only by the grace of God I sit before you today.” Galahad smiled. “That and quick reflexes.”

“I like him,” said Gwaine. “I like you.” He looked around the table. “Can we keep him?”

Galahad smiled at him. “You seem to understand something of Vortigern’s… tyranny. That is why I choose to tell you this. Any enemy of Vortigern deserves my aid. Especially if he has kidnapped your sister,” he explained.

“It is not only that,” said Arthur. “He has also, with Morgause, taken possession of an amulet. A key to a weapon that is more powerful than any existing today.”

Merlin watched Galahad’s face as Arthur mentioned Morgause, and once again saw it pained. “You know Morgause?” he enquired.

“She is known to me, yes. We have our… differences.” He outstretched his hands. “I do not… disregard or even dislike the old religions. This land is full of them and while I believe there is but one God, I know He chooses many ways to be known.”

“Or She,” said Gwen.

“Precisely. But Lady Morgause is not just a priestess. She is an abomination of the sacred powers of God’s earth.” His words were spoken swiftly, matter-of-fact.

Merlin nodded, thinking how Galapas, the Druid, had such a similar opinion. “We were told a tunnel leads from the abbey crypt to the castle dungeon.”

Galahad nodded. “Yes, but the dungeon is a prison with guards and locked cells. You would need keys.”

“I am a key,” said Merlin. He wiggled his fingers. “Magic,” he explained. He saw Arthur roll his eyes and resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at him.

“I see,” said Galahad. “Then the locks are no problem, but the guards will be. They are many and well trained.” He scratched his chin. “The tunnel has not been used in many years.”

“We’re used to that,” said Gwaine.

“I can show you its entrance.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. He looked Galahad up and down. “You know, I could always use—”

“I thank you, but the people need me here.”

Arthur leaned toward him. “I understand that feeling. But many more need good men like you to keep them safe. You look capable. Just know we have a place for you, should you ever want it. The empire serves a just ruler. I know her; she speaks of a world where goodness reigns and all the world’s people are free and ruled with reason and civility.”

Merlin felt himself frowning, so he bit down on his lip and looked away.

 

The abbey crypts were a winding labyrinth of arched stone rooms. After several minutes of walking, their steps echoing softly in the gloom, Merlin observed they must extend far beyond the abbey walls. The grey stone was remarkably dry, but the air was increasingly musty as they went, following the light of Galahad’s torch.

“We know the crypt dates as far back as the fifth century. Beyond that, who knows?” The farther they walked, the stronger Merlin felt the pull of magic as it thrummed within him. “Clearly it’s older than the Church’s presence here, in this city.”

“New Segontium?” Merlin asked.

“Oh,” Galahad chuckled. “It’s only been New Segontium since Vortigern came.”

“Named after his old fortress,” Arthur pointed out. “Which fell in defeat against my father.”

“And now you may stop him here,” said Galahad, leading them into a narrow room.

“Well, well,” said Gwaine, pointing. At the end of the room was a primitive engraving of Mithras and the bull. “That looks familiar.”

“Mithras,” said Galahad, brows raised.

“We encountered another Mithraeum nearby,” said Lance. “We are not followers ourselves, Father.”

“I see,” said Galahad.

“Although we do not all follow your faith, either,” said Merlin. “But we—I, at least—do listen when I am spoken to and honor any god who will use me.”

Galahad nodded. “I cannot fault you there, though I know many who would cry, ‘Blasphemy,’ and cast you aside.”

Merlin smiled because, really, he liked Galahad a lot and was sad their time with him was short. “I think we could be great friends,” he observed.

Arthur stood by Merlin and subtly rested a hand on his back. “As do I,” he said. “And my offer stands. But for now—is this the tunnel entrance?”

“Indeed,” said Galahad. He picked up a rusted sword from beside the altar and thrust it into a slot on the bull, and then twisted. Before them, the entire wall swung free, revealing a wide tunnel that narrowed and darkened as it went. “Go well, Lord Pendragon, Lord Merlin.”

“Oh, no, it’s just Merlin,” he corrected. “I’m not a lord.”

Galahad bowed to him, his hand over his heart, and didn’t respond.

“Father, it’s been great. I hope you reconsider Arthur’s offer,” said Gwaine. “I know he seems like a real stick in the mud, but he’s a good guy and might end up king.” He ignored Arthur’s irritated face and sounds. “Farewell.”

After clasping Gwaine in a hug (naturally), Galahad gave Lance a blessing, kissed Gwen’s hand, and solemnly watched them walk away.

 

The tunnel itself was clear and smooth, with nothing notable occupying it, apart from a few spiders. Merlin walked beside Arthur, leading the way. They reached the end quickly, and Merlin felt excitement and anxiety fill his chest.

The trapdoor was stone, and would have blended into the tunnel ceiling without the ladder and hinges. Merlin listened carefully, and heard nothing from above. Arthur decided to be the first up, and Merlin felt a knot develop in his stomach as he imagined what could befall them, were they to be caught. What could befall Arthur, really. The sentiment was most inconvenient, so Merlin tried to stamp it down with thoughts of Arthur being a prat but instead his mind flooded with images of Arthur’s sweat-slicked chest heaving above him in soft tavern light, and the way he flushed as Merlin had stroked down his body. _Most_ inconvenient.

Merlin snuffed the lights, and they stood in the black tunnel, preparing. Arthur stood at the ladder base, with Merlin just behind. And for a moment, they all just breathed, finally there, with their quest near its climax. Arthur sank back against Merlin in the dark, and Merlin pushed his chest against him, clutching his hips. He pressed his forehead against the nape of his neck and then followed it with a silent touch of his lips. As Gwaine and Gwen spoke quietly behind them, Merlin heard the quick intake of Arthur’s breath. So Merlin pressed his hips against Arthur’s rear, teasing him in the dark, and snaked a hand around to his belly, which Arthur met with his own. Arthur entwined their fingers and leaned his head back. Merlin slid his lips along to the side of Arthur’s neck.

“Right then,” said Gwen. “Let’s get Morgana.”

Merlin took a deep breath, muttering, “Later,” and stepped back.

“Yes,” said Arthur. He started to climb.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite so racy, alas. Never fear, there will me more smut before we're through. I quite liked writing it!
> 
> So, Galahad just kind of willed himself into being. At first, I had this character imagined and then realized, of course he's Sir Galahad the Pure. In other words, my OC is not OC, but is OC...
> 
> And the Russian should be "Good morning," if the interwebs are being truthful today. If not, I'm sorry. Please read as, "Good-morning-in-Russian."
> 
> Only four chapters left?! How?
> 
> Also, I tried to get in all of Merlin's wake-up-Arthur-with-ridiculous-sayings, but the story only allowed the two. Feel free to imagine all the other silly phrases stated/whispered/moaned in various states of undress, however. (As if you haven't before, naughty!)
> 
> Finally, yes, storming the castle is more Princess Bride. I can't resist.


	17. Vortigern's War Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew sneaks into the castle dungeons and Arthur takes on Vortigern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: There is quite a bit of violence in this chapter.

Arthur pushed up against the trapdoor slowly. Mouldy straw and dirt rained down on his face, but he braced himself and listened. All was quiet, so he nudged the trapdoor open until he could look around.

The dungeon was dimly lit and smelled terrible. Somehow, while the tunnel was mostly dry, the cell Arthur pulled himself into was dank and mouldering. The cell door was cracked open, and Arthur saw torchlight flickering in the corridor. He pulled Merlin up by the hand and then peeked out the door.

They were in one of the farthest cells from the guards, who sat planning a dice game at a low table. There were three guards, and none of them seemed much interested in the dungeon cells.

“They’re confident,” Arthur whispered. “Comfortable.”

“Shame they’re going to get sacked after this,” said Merlin, and his eyes twinkled. “They might be loving family men.”

Arthur suppressed a snort. “Indeed,” he whispered. Arthur turned and looked at the group. “Okay, this is it. We need to create a diversion that will draw them to the rear of the dungeon, and then we can sneak out and lock them in.”

“And knock them out,” said Lance, “so as to search the other cells for Morgana.”

Gwen’s face looked a bit stricken as she seemed to consider her friend in these circumstances.

“We’ll find her, love,” whispered Lance in a low voice.

Arthur nodded. “Right. Hopefully we can keep the noise to a minimum. I don’t see any more guards, but who knows?”

Merlin ducked around Arthur and stuck his head and an arm into the corridor. “ _Binne tófléon_ ,” he whispered, eyes flashing gold. From behind him, Arthur watched two barrels near the guards tip over and begin to slowly roll down the corridor.

The guards stood abruptly, looking at the barrels and each other. “как?” asked one of the guards, pulling a keyring from his belt. He twisted a key in the lock and undid the iron door to the corridor. Merlin pulled back into the cell, but kept the barrels rolling. The guards followed—stupidly, Arthur thought. They kept casting confused looks at each other and at the barrels, which creaked and rattled on the stone floor.

Arthur clutched at Merlin’s hip as the guards passed them, his other hand on Caliburn’s hilt.

“ _Alíese_ ,” Merlin hissed. The sound was muffled, but Arthur was certain the guards would hear. Instead, they remained fixated on the barrels. “ _Swéor þá_.” The barrels rammed into two of the guards as Arthur lunged into the corridor and rushed the third. The man was able to release a surprised shout, but Arthur quickly punched him, knocking him unconscious. He made quick work of setting the men together in a pile of hay, propped against each other.

There were inmates in only two of the cells. Merlin had their doors open before Arthur had finished asking them about their imprisonment. They were gaunt and filthy, and Merlin sent them into the tunnel with a torch and a loaf of bread.

“We shouldn’t,” Arthur told him as they locked the iron doors behind them. “We do not know if their imprisonment is just.”

“No one deserves such treatment, Arthur,” Merlin said. “This is inhumane.” He gestured to the dirty floors.

“It looks quite similar to the dungeons in Camelot,” said Gwaine.

“Which we don’t use,” said Arthur.

“Any more,” said Merlin. “Though I assume if Uther had his way…”

“Yes, yes,” said Arthur. He hushed them. “Let’s go.”

 

The staircase from the dungeons was narrow and winding, and lit only by occasional torchlight. At its top stood two guards in full armour. He gestured for Lance to take the guard on the left. Arthur tapped the right guard on the shoulder. When the man turned, Arthur swung. The guard was quick, however, and drew his sword in a flash, but Arthur met him with Caliburn, which flashed as he struck. In but a few moments, Arthur had him, and the man collapsed to the floor. Gwaine pulled both of the guards—as Lance’s had been felled with one mighty punch—into a broom closet. Merlin locked the door.

“Merlin!” Gwen exclaimed. “What if he wakes up?”

“We can’t have him alerting the castle to our presence.”

“What if the dead guy starts to smell?”

“They’ll let him out before then, Gwen, seriously.”

Gwen made a face at all of them. She really was the nicest person Arthur knew. Lance kissed her on the cheek, probably thinking something similar.

The staircase had ascended to a rear corridor where several other stairs and hallways met. “Which way?” Arthur wondered aloud.

Merlin stepped forward, head tilted forward. He was listening, Arthur realized. “Morgana and… maybe… Morgause,” he said frowning, “are up those stairs. But the amulet is probably with the sentinel, the machines. I can’t hear…” he trailed off, listening again. “Maybe that way?”

“We have to split up,” Arthur said. Merlin made a pained face and Arthur touched his arm. “You should get Morgana and I’ll—”

“Get killed by Vortigern? No thank you,” Merlin sniped.

“I will protect him,” said Gwaine.

“Protect me?” said Arthur incredulously. “I don’t _need_ protection—I’ll protect you!”

“Whatever you say, Duchess.”

“Thank you, Gwaine,” said Merlin, grinning at him. Arthur huffed.

“You be careful. Morgause is…” He was unsure how to describe her, and images of Merlin, knocking against the standing stones, flooded his mind. He bit his lip, pushing at his hair.

“I shall protect Merlin, my lord,” said Lancelot, his hand on his heart. “And Lady Guinevere, of course.”

Arthur looked Lance in the eye and nodded. “You have my gratitude. I will see that you are knighted when we return.” He clasped Lance by the forearm in a handshake and nodded to Gwen.

Merlin looked fierce, angry but restrained. “I will get Morgana,” he told Arthur. “You save the empire.”

 

Dispatching three more guards was no difficult task as Arthur and Gwaine crept through the winding corridors in the direction Merlin had pointed them. They reached another staircase that led down, as if to another dungeon. Instead, it led to a laboratory. Arthur and Gwaine stole along the edge, remaining in the shadows, and watched as two guards were dismissed by a man Arthur realized was Vortigern.

Vortigern was tall and solid. His build and stance revealed he was a man of action. Arthur knew Vortigern was older than his father, but he looked to be still in his prime.

Vortigern stood at a long desk with a shorter man wearing a leather apron and magnifying goggles. The workspace was covered in sundry equipment: calipers and compasses sat beside beakers of eerily glowing fluids. The shorter man shook his head at Vortigern. “I’m sorry, my lord, but it will be weeks before we are ready to replicate the key. The complexities are unlike any I’ve seen.”

“Unacceptable. The witch has informed me she now has the final enchantment in her grasp,” Vortigern said. His voice was firm and commanding, and the man seemed to cower.

“My lord, I…”

“Do not attempt to explain away your incompetence. Fix it!” Vortigern’s tone was icy. “This amulet is small. It cannot be so unlike the other piece. My army cannot wait.” And as if to illustrate his point, Vortigern turned and twisted a lever. The wall behind him shifted and slid open like a barn door. As the light flooded the room, Arthur felt himself gasp.

Beyond the door was a cavernous workroom, full of silent, stationary sentinels. They loomed, massive and deadly in the dimly lit hall.

“You have one week,” Vortigern said, his voice unforgiving. “One week until we complete the sentinels and with them, we will take apart the empire, territory by territory.” He towered over the engineer, his eyes bright and fierce. “One week until my nephew returns and our war machine is made ready.”

Arthur and Gwaine exchanged a look. Arthur nodded, and they stepped out of the gloom, weapons drawn.

The look of surprise on Vortigern’s face was fleeting. “You must be Arthur Pendragon,” he said, pulling a sword from his belt. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Uther didn’t teach you it is rude to visit without an invitation?” Arthur watched him step around the desk, which the engineer had dropped beneath. “Guards!” Vortigern called.

Ten men-at-arms filed into the room in mere seconds and the battle was begun. Gwaine and Arthur fired at the men as they dove behind lab tables amidst the hail of gunfire.

At first, the fight was a near stalemate; cover was abundant, and each side used it efficiently to keep their opponent from advancing. Arthur settled quickly into a deadly rhythm, ducking, leaning, firing his pistol, when he saw Vortigern lunge across the engineer’s desk. Arthur unloaded his pistol in his direction, but to no avail. As he crouched down to reload, he saw Vortigern creep toward the rear cavern.

“Psst!” Gwaine called. Arthur turned, firing over the table they hid behind, and receiving another answering spray of bullets.

“What?” Arthur asked.

In response, Gwaine pointed to a stack of crates labeled GTN. His face was lit up with an emotion Arthur was somewhat hesitant to identify. Arthur shrugged, his confusion clear. “Glyceryl trinitrate,” Gwaine hissed.

Arthur fired again at the guards, who were slowly advancing. He heard one cry out as his shot hit its mark. “What is it?”

“Nitro!” Gwaine said. His voice was triumphant and Arthur slowly nodded in recognition. “I’ll cover you,” Gwaine called as Arthur darted across to the next table. Gwaine’s pistols rang out like thunder as Arthur gingerly reached into the straw-lined crates and withdrew a pair of deep blue jars, heavy with the oily fluid. He ducked back down beside Gwaine just as he sank down to reload. Arthur held the jars delicately, barely daring to breathe. He handed one to Gwaine and they nodded at each other.

“Make it count,” Arthur whispered. He mouth a one, two, three and they both jumped up, throwing, and curled up behind the table.

Twin explosions blasted the guards and sent a shockwave through the laboratory. The cacophony rocked Arthur, who was covered in dust and splintered wood. His ears rang, as he looked at Gwaine, who smiled in delight. They peeked over the table, which miraculously still stood. The guards were either dead or unconscious, and Arthur allowed himself only a moment of sadness for their end. The laboratory was silent, but they heard shouts in the distance, so Arthur ran to close the lab door and bolt it with a heavy bar. He turned and stopped. His jaw dropped.

In the far room, Vortigern was pushing the two keys into a sentinel. He laughed as the machine shuddered and whirred to life. “End them,” Vortigern commanded, and the machine began to charge.

Gwaine did not hesitate. He took two more jars of nitroglycerine and heaved them at the sentinel. It was knocked over in the explosion, but picked itself up as Arthur saw Vortigern in the shadows behind the wreckage.

“Go,” Gwaine called. “Leave this thing to me.” He dove behind a cabinet as rapid gunfire erupted from the sentinel. Arthur sprinted around the side of the room as Gwaine threw another jar of nitroglycerine, followed by some other chemical that covered the machine in an eerie green fire. Still, it recovered and continued the onslaught.

 

Arthur found Vortigern in the rear of the cavernous room, sword drawn and angry. Arthur lifted Caliburn, and Vortigern’s face paled.

“Excalibur,” Vortigern hissed. He glared at Arthur. “But how?”

Arthur swung the sword through the air. “Pulled from stone where it was left for me, not fifty kilometres hence,” he said. “You will never be high king, Vortigern, because you are not worthy. If you were, Caliburn would be yours.”

Vortigern lunged with a shout. Arthur met him, blow for blow. Their swords clanged amid the explosions and gunfire of the nearby fracas.

Arthur lost himself in the battle. All else went quiet as he focused on Vortigern’s movements. He struck with power, and Arthur found it impossible to predict the older man’s movements. He found himself pushed back against the wall, barely able to parry the furious clashing of Vortigern’s sword, and then he was brought back to the present, to their urgency as he heard Gwaine roar, his voice full of rage and pain as the laboratory lit in explosions.

Vortigern kicked at Arthur, and he fell. He rolled to the side as Vortigern’s blade plunged down where he had laid seconds before, and Arthur kicked at Vortigern’s feet. He stumbled to his knees and Arthur rose over him, Caliburn shining and glowing with ethereal light.

“Even if you strike me down,” Vortigern spat, “my legacy will live on. Ateas will continue my work to destroy your damnable empire, to build one in its stead with purer blood on its throne. A man of my line _will_ rule,” he said. “Ateas will ensure it—and Morgause. The world will be united in submission to me and mine. Even if I am gone, the white dragon remains.” He gestured wildly to the sentinels around him. “We remain.”

Arthur shook his head. “The world will only unite in opposition to your cruelty and evil intent, Vortigern. Your line ends here, and your fantasy dies with it.” With a mighty slash, Arthur drove Caliburn into Vortigern’s chest.

The sentinel lurched to a halt.

Arthur met Gwaine at its side. He was bloodied and barely upright.

“You look like hell,” said Gwaine, spitting out blood from his cut lip.

“Me?” Arthur scoffed. He looked down and realized he was bleeding from several places. “Oh,” he said. He reached up and took hold of both dragon keys. He slid them into his pocket.

“Come,” said Gwaine. “Let’s find Merlin and the others.”

Arthur nodded as he took in the wreckage. The engineer, somehow, had survived. Arthur looked him in the eye.

“More guards will be just outside,” said the engineer. “I… thank you,” he stammered. “I can destroy these… monstrosities.” He gestured to the sentinels. “You free us from an evil, killing Vortigern. But I fear his witch even more. If you can get past the guards, you must beware the witch.”

Arthur listened to the guards as they pounded at the door.

“There must be several,” said Gwaine.

They nodded to each other as the engineer fled into the cavern. Arthur drew Caliburn and squared his shoulders. They must beware the witch. Like a fool, Arthur had let Merlin take that challenge. Morgause may already have Merlin in her grasp. He trusted his crew, and he knew Merlin was powerful, but fear gnawed at him regardless.

“Let’s go,” he said, and they faced the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian is just, "What?"
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long to post.


	18. Tested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin, Guinevere, and Lancelot seek out Morgana in New Segontium. Strong words are exchanged, as are blows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a busy week! I've been helping a friend with a qualifying exam, so I've been in and out of academic speak. I apologize if it bleeds over. However, I promise this chapter doesn't contain anything about epistemology, phenomenology, or ontology (unless you want to read that in, and don't let me stop you, nerds).

Merlin had never considered himself much of a fighter. He had been born with immense magic, and the Druids who visited Ealdor had whispered about his birth before it even happened. Merlin’s mother had told him these things as a boy, when he had not thought much of prophecy or destiny or any of that. When Hunith told him he was Destined for Great Things, he thought her words were like those of any mother. He knew he was gifted, but assumed those gifts simply meant a comfortable life in a place more interesting than Ealdor. Merlin’s uncle, Ambrosius, had seen great military success, and while Merlin was called Emrys after him (according to his mum), he felt much more like his Uncle Gaius. Indeed, Gaius had become something like a father to Merlin, and Gaius was a pacifistic influence.

These thoughts filled Merlin’s mind as he led Lance and Gwen up winding staircases and twisting corridors to a far corner of New Segontium’s fortress that seemed torn from the pages of a Matthew Lewis novel. The lighting was poor and a draught bit at Merlin’s face and seemed to whistle as it cut around the tight corners in the place.

No, Merlin had not considered himself a warrior. His magic was a force for life, for good, and yet it had been used so many times to _destroy_ in the past week. He knew, objectively, that there had been little choice. He had been backed into a corner with the empire itself on the line. Merlin considered that. The empire was worth defending, he thought. It wasn’t perfect, but the idea of it, what it represented, was surely good. To spread justice and righteousness to all corners of the earth. Even if the goals of colonization had not always been so noble, the empress wanted freedom and a better life for all people. He could justify the use of his magic for the defense of these ideals. Yet Merlin’s heart felt heavy as they rounded one last corner and came upon an ancient-looking wooden door and he knew, with all the sensations churning in and around him, that challenge and pain were behind it. Merlin took a deep breath and turned the handle.

The room was surprisingly well-appointed, given the gothic atmosphere that clung to the rest of the castle. Morgana sat in a luxe violet gown at a long table, set for five. Morgause wore silver and sat at the head. “Join us,” she said. It was less a request than a gentle command, surprising in its softness. The result was a de-centeredness that Merlin felt keenly as he sat. He looked intently at Morgana. Her eyes were wide and her breasts heaved with each breath, giving away her anxieties. Gwen sat beside her and clutched her hand, but Morgana released it just as quickly, and Gwen’s face was troubled and confused.

Lance did not sit, and Morgause watched him as he stood behind the empty seat. “Lancelot du Lac,” she said. “Noblest of knights. You have nothing to fear at my table. I have no quarrel with you.” She ignored Lance’s mumbling that he wasn’t yet a knight and watched Merlin cock his head to the side in disbelief. “You are the sorcerer,” she observed. She licked her lips and took a drink from her goblet, and then dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I confess I’ve been eager to meet you, especially after finally being united with my sister. I understand you’ve been a friend to her—you all have.” She smiled at them with gleaming teeth. “That is why you’ve been welcomed here, to my table.”

As she paused, a boom reverberated through the castle, shaking the room. Morgause smiled wider. “I see you brought Arthur.”

Morgana’s eyes were wide. Lance placed a hand on Gwen’s shoulder. Merlin glared at Morgause. “We know you’re building a weapon. We came to stop you,” he said.

Morgause dismissed this comment with the wave of her hand. “Vortigern is building a weapon. I choose to aid him because it suits me now. But you and I and Morgana— _we are weapons_.” She narrowed her eyes as she stared at him. “We are power manifested, and when we unite, none who oppose magic can stand in our way.”

“ _When_ we unite?” asked Merlin.

“Yes.” Morgause smiled at Morgana, and then Merlin. “Morgana, tell your friends.”

Morgana’s voice was soft as she spoke. “My visions, they… they make sense here. I see now. The empire is against us, Merlin. I’ve seen it battling against magic, against me. Even Arthur, fighting against me because of this power. It… frightens them. They would see us all destroyed.”

“That isn’t true,” said Merlin. “I know Arthur. He would never fight against you, against what is right.”

“These visions are not lies,” Morgause argued, eyes flashing.

“Not lies, no,” said Merlin. “But neither are they certainties. They must be interpreted, and even then, the future is not fixed. You know this, Morgana. Galapas has said as much. You can choose.”

“Galapas,” Morgause sneered. “That fool has outlived his usefulness. He envies your power, Morgana. He lies to you. And you, Merlin.” She smiled again. “I sense great power in you. I can teach you to wield it in ways those fool Druids never could. If the three of us unite, we could rule the empire and no one—Vortigern, Uther, or Arthur—could stand in our way.”

“Why on Earth would I want that?” Merlin asked. “In earnestness.”

Morgause looked taken aback. You—Because we could alter the balance of power, you fool.”

“Insulting me is hardly the way to court my allegiance,” Merlin retorted, and then realized that actually had worked for Arthur, so he set the thought aside. “I don’t care about power, Morgause. I don’t need it.”

“Do you realize what kind of world we could have if magic was given its rightful place?”

“And what place is that?” Merlin asked. “I’m uninterested in politics.”

“We will be recognized for our power. Anything you want, you will have. No longer will anyone with magic bow and scrape before the weak who had lorded over us for centuries like Uther Pendragon or the pretender who calls herself a queen.”

“Seriously, though. Do you know the first thing about governing?” Merlin lifted his eyebrow, channeling Gaius as best he could. “It is more than ceremonies and state dinners, you know. More than being bowed to.” Merlin made a face. “Seems rather a pain to me, that weight of responsibility, never a day off, constantly fretting about feeding the hungry and pacifying the masses while defending against hostile enemies. No, thank you. There are far too many considerations for that to be enjoyable. Trade unions, for example. The empire stretches around the world and every territory and protectorate has its own rules.”

Morgause’s face was angry. “Do you think I don’t—are you implying I underestimate the… complexities or… difficulties of ruling?”

Merlin shrugged. “I’m just not sure you’ve really thought this through.”

Morgause straightened her shoulders. “When we replace this empire with our own, you will understand, Merlin. When you feel the admiration wrought by fear.” Another explosion echoed and shook, and Merlin took in the set of Morgause’s jaw. Fear, he thought. Indeed. In a flash, the look was gone.

“I’m not interested in terror,” Merlin said. “Or admiration, really. I am interested in making lives better for everyone, with or without magic. I am interested in freeing the world from tyrants and would-be tyrants. That’s why I’m here.”

Morgause laughed, tossing her hair. “Tyrants? Please.”

“Your ‘king,’ Vortigern, is attempting to create a mechanized war engine that will cut through any defenses it meets, so he can topple an empire, unseat a beloved queen, and institute a new world order that rules with fear and unmatched power, which you then want to usurp,” Merlin explained. “You are the baddies.”

Morgause’s eyes flashed, and Merlin heard Morgana’s quick intake of breath. In a blink, all of the table’s glassware shattered. Lance moved his hand to draw his pistol, and in a blink, he was thrown across the room. Before there was a moment to react, Merlin and Gwen were also sent flying. Merlin felt his head collide with the wall, and for a few seconds he was immobilized. He groaned, rolling to his side.

“I’ve given you a chance because of your closeness to my sister,” Morgause said as beneath them, somewhere, were more explosions. The room around them shook, and with a gasp, Merlin realized this shaking was not a simple echo. He remembered, suddenly, a dream he had once had, as vividly as if he had just awoke from it: in a cave beneath a castle, two dragons fought. And as long as the dragons fought, the castle could not stand.

Merlin’s visions were rare—he’d confessed as much to Arthur—and made even less sense, but this one was suddenly clear. “We have to go” he said, stumbling to his feet.

“Never!” Morgause cried, and once more, he was thrown backward. As Morgause fixated on him, Merlin watched Lance draw a katana and slide furtively across the floor.

Merlin rolled to the side and reached out to the magic around him. He flung out his hands and knocked Morgause backward into a shelf. A pair of vases it held were crushed by her impact, and with her cry of rage, Merlin felt himself be struck by another surge of magic. This time, he landed near the tower window, and his arm twisted beneath him as he braced against the fall. White hot pain licked up his arm, stripping his mind for a moment of anything else. The room shook in earnest and he forced himself to focus. He pushed another attack at Morgause, and she tumbled across the room. As she recovered, Lance lunged. He swung the katana, but Morgause rolled to the side. Lance sliced again, and caught her arm.

Morgause cried out in pain, and Merlin watched as Lance was blasted to the side. Time seemed to still as Merlin noted the look of surprise on Morgause’s face; he realized the surge had not come from her. Morgana stood at the table, arms outstretched.

“Morgana, no!” Gwen cried, and Morgana glared at her.

“You don’t understand,” she bit out. “None of you understand the depths of their hatred for us. I’ve seen it. I’ve been to court and I’ve met them. I know what they would do.” Her eyes sparked gold as she struck Lance down again. He groaned in pain, and as he leaned against the wall, it seemed to lean with him.

“Move!” Merlin shouted, and Lance jumped away, just as a piece of the ceiling collapsed with a mighty crash. Lance was struck by a piece of wooden beam, but his eyes were open, albeit dazed. Merlin looked at Gwen. “Get him out of here,” he shouted over the crescendo of grinding stone and splintering rafters, accompanied by the continuing thud of explosions somewhere below. Gwen ran to Lance and they leaned on each other as they stumbled to the door.

Morgana turned to attack, but Morgause stopped her. “Never mind them. The guards below will see them stopped.” She turned to Merlin. “But him. He has become a threat to us.”

“Don’t do this, Morgana,” Merlin said, as Morgana stepped to her half-sister’s side. “This isn’t you.”

Morgana’s eyes were filled with unshed tears. “You don’t know, Merlin. You’ve always been celebrated, prophesied. You don’t know what life is like for the rest of us. Do you know I was told to hide my magic from Uther’s peers, from _my_ peers, when I was a child?” Morgause took her hand, and her eyes were triumphant.

“But you aren’t a child now, Morgana, and everyone knows,” Merlin pointed out. A crack ran across the floor.

“And they despise me for it.”

“No,” Merlin shook his head. “If they despise you, it isn’t your magic. It’s your strength that frightens them, and that’s nothing to do with magic.”

The crack widened, and Merlin felt the room, the tower itself, shifting. Merlin stepped gingerly toward the door.

“Don’t listen to him, Morgana. He knows nothing of the world.” Morgause crept near to him, glaring with bitter eyes.

“I may know little of the world, but I know you, Morgana. I know you are above this.”

As Merlin spoke, the floor split with a deafening crack. Merlin felt it give beneath him. He tried to grab hold, but his arm resisted even the slightest movement. He seized a beam with one hand, but it immediately began to give way. His feet swung free, and he tried not to look down as his fingers slid.

This must be it, he thought, his mind suddenly clear. Arthur better have found that damn necklace.

 

Morgana’s hands were cool where they closed around his wrist. “No!” she cried. She laid across the remaining floor and gripped him tightly.

“Let him go, Morgana, he’s pulling you down,” Morgause shouted above the din of continued destruction. Merlin felt she was right, and watched as Morgana struggled against his weight.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped out. “I was wrong, Merlin.” She ground her teeth. “This isn’t the right way.” Stones crumbled around them. “This isn’t me.”

Merlin grinned. “Good,” he said. “ _Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard!_ ” With a whorl, Merlin felt a lurch and he found himself at the rendezvous point, Morgana at his side. “It worked!” He laughed, embracing Morgana with his good arm.

“What?” she asked.

“I’ve been trying to think how to do that since Arthur told me you were kidnapped.”

“I can’t believe you just experimented with my body like that. I feel violated, Merlin.”

Lance and Gwen stumbled into the corridor from the stairs, dust following behind. They eyed Morgana warily.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t—please forgive—I just—I’m so sorry.” She and Gwen hugged each other with vigour. Their relief was interrupted by Merlin’s startled yell as someone clutched him from behind.

“Shh,” the voice said. Merlin turned, and breathed.

“Galahad.”

The priest stood, assessing them. “You need my help,” he observed. “I find myself called to aid you and the future king.” He nodded slowly. “Let us find your friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters! I can't believe this has come so far.
> 
> I had actually planned to wrap up the conflict in this chapter, so we're going to be a tiny bit off the outline. Sassy Merlin just wanted to keep sassing Morgause. What can I say? He knows Albion needs qualified leaders.


	19. Out of the Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Gwaine must escape the castle laboratory; the entire crew must escape the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typed on my new laptop (yay!). I'm not yet comfortable with this keyboard, so I apologize for any extra typos I may have missed. They will be corrected as I revisit and spot them.
> 
> On the bright side, new laptop weighs a fraction of the old one and already seems to be more reliable. Huzzah!

The pounding on the door grew louder, and Arthur knew the circumstances were dire. It was unlikely both he and Gwaine would make it out of this fight. The fact they had survived a fight with Vortigern and his sentinel was quite incredible, really. Arthur wondered how they managed to catch him unawares despite his seers. Morgause must have kept their coming a secret, and Arthur wondered at the omission. He wondered how much of their earlier ambush had been coordinated with Vortigern, and how independent or dependent Morgause had been.

“If we survive this,” he told Gwaine, “remind me to find out why Morgause was hiding intel from her partner.”

Gwaine shrugged. “You mean, other than her general duplicity and shadiness?”

“Yes.”

“Will do, boss.”

“You know I’m not your boss.”

“Yes, but it gets you so worked up, and I like seeing you like this. If this is where it ends, I’m not letting you down easy.” He smiled at Arthur, and Arthur slapped him on the back, allowing himself a wry smile.

“It is always an honor to have you at my side, Sir Gwaine.”

“As it is my honor to serve there, my lord.” And Arthur knew he would have to fight three times as hard to make up for Gwaine going twice as hard, to keep him from more reckless self-sacrificial acts. Arthur would not let Gwaine die on his watch.

The rumbling from the outer corridor was unnaturally loud, and if Arthur didn’t think it impossible, he would have thought it sounded like falling rock and screams. Perhaps the explosions still rang his ears, he thought. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Gwaine’s answer was a laugh and the toss of his hair. Arthur unbolted and opened the door. Chaos was on the other side.

The first thing Arthur noticed was Merlin. His eyes flashed gold as he fought Vortigern’s men, mumbling under his breath as he stunned them and sent them flying. Arthur stood for a moment and considered the way Merlin stood. He was in pain—Arthur saw that his face was pallid. Then Arthur noticed two more things: the castle was crumbling and Galahad had come to their aid.

Galahad fought like Lancelot or Gwaine, and, Arthur considered, they needed the help. Lance was barely upright, and he had given one of his katanas to Gwen, whose eyes were wide as she fought by his side. Galahad’s cassock was undone and pushed back to reveal fitted black pants and shirt. A thick gun belt was strapped to his side, but he carried a shining sword that nearly rivaled Caliburn itself. Galahad spun and kicked and thrust his blade into enemy after enemy, and Arthur had to tear his eyes away to see to his own fight. He and Gwaine stood by each other and battled the remaining men, one, two, three at a time. Every part of his body hurt, and Gwaine’s grunts and laboured breathing echoed his own.

The castle wasn’t collapsing entirely, but pieces of it were coming apart. The ceiling was crumbling sporadically, and Arthur knew they needed to get out sooner than later. He nodded at Gwaine and together they took out the last few soldiers.

Morgana wore an impractical dress for fighting, and she looked shaken as Arthur pulled her into his arms. Gwaine took Galahad in a similar embrace, his smile wider than Arthur had seen it in a long time.

“Did they treat you…” Arthur began to ask Morgana, and then realized he did not know how to finish. Had they hurt her? Had they fed her? Obviously they had clothed her well—absurdly well.

“I am okay, Arthur. I’m just so… happy Merlin was able to…” she trailed off and Arthur found Merlin’s eyes upon them.

Arthur felt the collective gaze of the crew as he stepped over to Merlin. Instead of meeting his penetrating look, Arthur prodded the arm that hung limp at his side. He tried to think of a witty comment that would convey how happy he was to see Merlin, how frightened he was to see him injured, while teasing him about being careless, but nothing appropriate came to mind. “Is it broken?” he asked instead, his voice gruff and strained.

Merlin shrugged with his other shoulder, grimacing. “I don’t know. Probably not.” He reached up and touched Arthur’s cheek. “You look terrible.” Arthur winced as his fingers grazed a sensitive spot. “And you’re bleeding all over the place.”

Arthur made an outraged face. “Well sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, _Merlin_. I’ll be more careful the next time we save the empire from an evil madman, so I don’t get so bloody.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Merlin ducked his head down a bit to hide his grin, but Arthur saw it, saw the blue of his eyes darken a bit as Arthur caught the infectious smile. He laughed and pulled Merlin into a sideways embrace, careful not to touch the injured arm, but squeezing enough to make Merlin grumble about him “bleeding all over his good shirt,” which made Arthur laugh more, and soon he was joined by Gwaine, whose guffaw had everyone going, save Galahad, who just looked confused. This look had Gwaine laughing even harder, or course, and pointing, and soon he wrapped his arms around Galahad as his amusement ended. He placed his hands on each side of Galahad’s face and said, “My friend, I am _so_ happy you came.” His smile was bright and, Arthur thought, maybe a bit brittle. “I am so happy you are here.”

Galahad smiled softly at Gwaine and nodded, and Arthur realized he said more with that smile and nod than most men said with a hundred words. “I am honoured to have you among us,” Arthur said, and he knew from the look he now received that Galahad would be with them until the end.

Which, Arthur thought with dismay, may still be too soon. They must leave New Segontium quickly. “Morgause?” he asked.

“Not dead,” said Merlin. “Left in a collapsing tower, but breathing.”

“Then she will try to stop us,” Morgana interjected. “She will not capitulate easily.”

Galahad nodded. “My brothers can remove us from the city.” He stepped to his side as another piece of the ceiling fell in. “Follow me.”

 

The abbot met them behind the abbey stables. He held a knapsack for Galahad. “I will miss you,” he said, kissing the other man’s cheeks. They piled into the back of his wagon, and he drove them away from the city, covered by canvas tarpaulins.

The city itself was in chaos. The castle was visibly falling apart. One tower, it appeared, had completely crumbled, and Arthur was angry to find it was where Morgana had been rescued. He silently berated himself for not going after her himself—for nearly letting them all be killed.

“I’m probably to blame for blowing everything up,” Gwaine said.

“That was you, then?” Merlin asked. He held his arm in place amidst the swaying of the wagon on the rough road.

“Naturally,” said Gwaine.

The tarps were removed a few kilometres from the town, and they rode in quiet camaraderie. Arthur directed the abbot to take the road around the mountain and sat back to listen to Gwaine questioning all of Galahad’s life decisions.

“It just seems to me,” he said, “that the celibacy thing must’ve been a misunderstanding. I mean, isn’t it more likely that Paul bloke was just heartbroken himself over some bird—or chap, whatever—and then it just got a bit out of hand?”

“Christ himself set the example,” Galahad argued.

“Right, but he was born of a virgin, too, you say. So I don’t see much room for a comparison, mate.”

Arthur heard the abbot chuckling under his breath as he turned to catch Merlin’s eye. It was going to be great fun listening to these two the way back to Camelot.

 

They reached _The Pelican_ at dusk and offered the abbot lodgings for the night.

“No, I have parishioners to visit near here I will stop with,” he said. “You should get on your way.” They thanked each other briefly, and he rode off into the darkening night.

Freya welcomed them aboard with several bottles of wine and a table full of food. Arthur watched her pull Morgana aside and hold her for a long time, hands ghosting across her back. “You’re here,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Morgana seemed dazed.

Arthur had the crew assist him to weigh anchor before they were situated in the formal dining room. Soon after, he excused himself to the bridge. He wasted no time pushing the engine order telegraph to full and felt _The Pelican_ respond. She lifted above the mountaintops and steamed west, toward home.

Arthur heard laughter from the other room and he breathed deeply, relishing the sound. He rolled his shoulders and neck, feeling a small amount of tension give way.

“This isn’t the end of Morgause.” He hadn’t heard Merlin enter, and his voice startled Arthur from his reverie.

“What, tonight?”

“No, I doubt she’ll move soon, with those setbacks. I mean in general. As long as she’s alive, I think she’ll keep up this fight.”

“Against me?”

“Against us. She wants to take down the empire. And now she knows I’m on your side, irrevocably. She’ll know it makes you even more dangerous—even more dangerous to her than your father.”

“You need to have your arm treated.”

“It isn’t broken, just strained somehow, I think.” He looked down at it and Arthur shook his head, stepping near.

“Did I not tell you to take care of yourself? Or did I?”

“You’re one to talk, with your great bloody gashes and bruises everywhere.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur said, his hands gripping at Merlin’s lapels. “I still have two working hands.” As Arthur spoke, his face flushed. He was flirting, he thought, with Merlin, after a battle with a mad upstart king, a crazy sorceress, and a giant anthropomorphic machine. The whole situation was mental.

“What?” Merlin asked, noticing Arthur’s expression.

Arthur shook his head. “It has been one hell of a week, is all.” He released Merlin and stepped back. “You should take off your jacket and your shirt so we can get a look at it.”

“Arthur. Are you asking me to take my clothes off?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, maybe? Well, if you aren’t certain…” Merlin started to turn away.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was rough, and it surprised him, how raw he sounded, so quickly. Merlin stopped at the sound, his eyes wide and dark. Arthur watched him wet his lips as he pushed at his jacket with his good arm. Arthur brushed the hand aside and whispered, “Let me.” He pushed back on the jacket, and it slid to the floor. Next, Arthur pushed down Merlin’s braces, pausing at the quick intake of breath as they were dragged over his elbow. “Sorry,” Arthur said. He untied Merlin’s scarf slowly and dropped it on the table. He took Merlin in for a moment. His body was at rest, but strong and virile. Merlin’s clothes were well-fitted, but Arthur knew, now, what they hid. The thought warmed his cheeks and his belly, and the air seemed to crackle as he began to undo the buttons of Merlin’s shirt, one by one.

A pale expanse of bare chest was revealed with excruciating slowness, and Arthur’s heart pounded like it had in battle. When he pulled the shirt free from his trousers, Merlin sighed, and Arthur let himself run a finger along the waistband and a knuckle up the abdominals. He pulled back, casting his eyes around the room warily, and out the windows to mark their progress and safety. He heaved a deep breath and turned back to Merlin, who now stood even closer, wet lips barely parted and shining, indecently pink in the gaslight.

“Second thoughts?” Merlin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur met his gaze fully. “None,” he answered. “Except that you should take better care of yourself.”

“I’m not the one covered in blood, who had to be saved.”

“I did not have to be saved, Merlin. Gwaine and I—”

“Were trapped down there.”

“We were perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“I supposed I should just accustom myself to finding you bloodied and battered, sometimes unconscious…”

“And I should be used to you sweeping in like an idiot, in way over his head, despite debilitating injuries.”

“This is the first time I’ve been debilitated, thank you.”

Arthur undid Merlin’s cufflinks and pushed his shirt off, laying it on top of the scarf. “Let’s just see this.”

The swelling was bad, but Arthur thought Merlin was right that it wasn’t broken. Just to be certain, Arthur inspected it closely—and the rest of Merlin’s exposed skin, to be _very_ certain—before finally admitting Freya was probably a more talented healer than he.

“I’ll have her look at it,” Merlin promised, taking up his discarded clothes.

“And you should probably rest,” Arthur said, pushing at the wheel.

Merlin nodded, his mouth turned up at the corners. “So should you.”

“I’ll find a good place to stop soon,” Arthur said.

“And then…”

Arthur watched Merlin’s pupils dilate as he looked him up and down. “I’ll find you,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, I'm still behind on the outline because too much wanted to get wrapped up in this chapter. That means there is only one scheduled chapter remaining, which needs to contain the smut I have planned as well as the conclusion of the plot. In other words, I may end up with an epilogue. We'll see.
> 
> Also, I've just really fallen in love with Gwaine and Galahad, and I'm considering a one-off or something that fleshes out that friendship a little. Just a thought.


	20. The Singing and the Harp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Merlin return to Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This chapter contains adult content, proceed with caution.

Pain lingered in Merlin’s arm, even after Freya treated it. Merlin retired to his quarters, which shared an en-suite lavatory with Arthur’s, separate from the airship’s head. Merlin gingerly filled the tub and bathed himself, and then dressed in simple trousers and a soft undershirt. He had just finished drawing a second bath when Arthur found him.

The soft lights reflected in Arthur’s eyes as Merlin came to him, silent and resolute. Merlin watched those eyes close as he peeled back layer after layer of Arthur’s clothes.

“Is this hurting your arm?” Arthur asked in a low voice.

“It’s just stiff,” Merlin answered. “A little sore, but not terrible.” His eyes clung to Arthur’s body as he stepped into the tub.

“Good,” Arthur said. He dipped his head beneath the water and rose back up, rivulets cascading down his bronzed skin, dripping from his golden hair, and Merlin couldn’t help the release of breath or the noise he made in his throat. Arthur leaned back, relaxing in the warmth. “Thank you,” he said, catching Merlin’s eyes.

“Well, I could smell you from in here,” Merlin teased. “So thank you.”

Arthur’s smile was easy and languid. “You liked it,” he said. “I’ve felt you sniffing at my neck.”

“That is nowhere near the same thing, Arthur.”

“Okay, if you say so.” Arthur took up the soap and started to scrub at himself in a cursory manner, so Merlin took it from him.

Merlin leisurely worked Arthur’s hair into a lather, greedily inhaling the scent of honey and almond. “You killed Vortigern,” he said.

Arthur sighed, letting his eyes close. “I did. He nearly killed me.”

“And Gwaine.”

“Yes, with the sentinel. I’m just relieved there was only one. We wouldn’t have survived without it stopping.”

“I didn’t kill Morgause.”

“I know.”

Merlin rubbed his fingertips into Arthur’s scalp and trailed them down to his neck. Arthur made a throaty noise, so Merlin increased the pressure. “She’s going to try again.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll be ready next time.”

“ _We’ll_ be ready next time. And it will take her a while to rebuild, to organise. In the meantime, her majesty’s spies will be sent.”

“So you’ll go to court, then, when we’re home?” Merlin felt a pressure build in his chest. He ran the soap over Arthur’s back.

“I promised a knighthood to Lance and Galahad. I need to see it through.”

“They deserve it.”

Arthur turned and grabbed Merlin’s wrist. “You deserve it. I want to see _you_ knighted, Merlin, so you will always be where you should be, at my side.”

Merlin bit at his lip. “You know that knighthood isn’t my goal, Arthur.”

“She’ll want to recognize you, when she knows what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t even kill Morgause—I’ve not done much, Arthur, and can we, just… can we _not_ talk about her, please?”

Arthur pursed his lips. “I thought we’d covered this… sufficiently.”

Merlin huffed an exhale. “I doubt there’s ever going to be sufficient cover for this.”

Arthur’s eyes were far away for a moment. “Merlin, I just, I… I don’t know what to do or say, or… It just, I don’t know. But… I… _want_ this.”

“To be king?”

“No, gods, not that. _You_.”

Merlin nodded. “Then what don’t you know?”

“How to make this work. My father, everyone else…”

Merlin wanted to say Uther could hang for all he cared, but he knew the reality was much more complicated. He watched as Arthur’s eyes filled with unshed tears, and he felt his own eyes prickle as he handed the soap to Arthur and walked back into the bedchamber.

A book sat on the desk, and Merlin flipped through its pages without reading the words. He thought of a conversation he’d had with Will.

“I don’t understand why you’re going,” Will had said. “To help Arthur Pendragon? That pompous, spoiled arse.”

“Look, I’m not denying he’s any of those things. He is. But there’s also more.”

“More?” Will had looked dubious.

“Yeah. He _cares_.”

“About?”

“Camelot. The empire. The future of Albion—what’s right and wrong.”

“Oh bloody hell. Merlin.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got feelings—”

“Gods, no!” Merlin had said. “I just know I’m supposed to do this. I can feel it, that our fates are entwined. I’m meant to protect him.”

“Protect Arthur Pendragon? The most famed warrior in the empire? I’ve always thought the magic was going to fry your brain somehow, and there it is—you’ve gone mental.”

“That’s it, though, Will. I haven’t. All these years, I’ve been told I was meant to be something bigger, do something grand. Well, here it is.”

Will looked nonplussed. “Arthur?”

“I’m not denying he’s a prat. He is. But there’s this goodness in him, like he’s serving a higher purpose. Like—look, mate, we’ve always thought these people in power, they don’t care, yeah? Not about regular people. But he’s doing this to _protect_ people. Everyone. He could send soldiers, guards, whoever after Morgause or Vortigern, but he isn’t. He is going. And you know, I don’t think it ever even occurred to him not to. Like, he’s already got a title, and set to inherit wealth and estates, and be the duke of Camelot, but instead of sitting in some club playing cards or anything, he’s here doing this.”

“Oh gods. You really have fallen for him, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t. You asked why I’m going.”

“I asked if you really _are_ going.”

Well, I am, and that’s why. We can sit around complaining, or we can put our support with someone who’s going to do good in this world. It’s not the scale I’d planned, or that I’d like, but I can tell.”

“Tell what?”

“He’s going to keep fighting for good, for what’s right. He’s going to fight for anything or everything he believes in.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I know him. I don’t know how, but I know him.”

 

Arthur closed the book. Merlin turned to find him standing close. His chest was bare and damp, and a towel hung dangerously loose around his hips. He leaned against Merlin, head turned away, and fingered the cover of the book. “What is this?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

Merlin couldn’t help but push his hips back against Arthur’s. Their chests pressed together, slightly offset, as he wrapped an arm around Arthur’s waist. He laid his hand against the warm expanse of Arthur’s lower back. “Scythian history,” he whispered against Arthur’s neck. He felt him shiver at breath on skin.

Arthur flipped a few pages. “Looks boring,” he said.

“It is,” Merlin answered. He felt the gooseflesh on Arthur’s arm as he slid his hand along it. Arthur shivered again and Merlin pressed his lips to his neck and tasted him. He reached up and grasped Arthur’s nape, curling his fingers in the hair Arthur had let grow just a little long. Merlin kissed along his neck to his jaw, ran teeth and tongue across the rough edge.

Arthur pressed his forehead to Merlin’s. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get home,” he said, and the huskiness of his voice went straight to Merlin’s groin. He rolled his hips against Arthur’s and Arthur grabbed hold of them. “I told you already I don’t know what will happen but I know, Merlin, I _vow_ to you, that I am going to do whatever I can to keep you, to make you mine.”

“Yours,” Merlin whispered, and he claimed Arthur’s lips with his own. It was a hungry kiss, almost punishing in intensity. Merlin met Arthur’s tongue as it plunged into his mouth. He gripped Arthur’s hair and let himself take and be taken by the kiss. It consumed him. His head spun, and he pressed Arthur against the desk for support, rolling his hips, his hardness, against Arthur’s.

The towel came free as they pressed together, and Arthur made a keening noise as his body dragged against Merlin’s. “Shirt—off,” Arthur panted, gulping in air before returning to the kiss, ravaging Merlin’s mouth as his was ravaged. He tugged at Merlin’s shirt and tossed it across the room when it came free, pausing to lave wet kisses down to Merlin’s nipple. Then he sucked hard on it and Merlin gasped, gripping at Arthur. He watched Arthur trail his calloused, battle-worn hands down his chest to undo his trousers, and with a final push, Merlin was bare.

He looked at Arthur, then, let his eyes commit to memory the dusting of chest hair, the ridges of his muscles, the scars from old wounds. “You would make Adonis… weep in jealousy,” Merlin said. He gasped as Arthur ran a finger up his inner thigh.

“I’m hardly a blushing youth,” he said, letting his hand hover just above where Merlin most longed for his touch.

“Hence the jealousy.” Merlin pushed forward and finally felt Arthur take hold. “How the goddesses would fight for you.”

“Or gods,” Arthur smirked, stroking him slowly. Merlin closed his eyes and bit back a moan. Arthur nipped at his throat. “Don’t close your eyes, love,” he whispered, and Merlin’s heart stopped. Arthur didn’t pause. He pushed his hips forward and palmed himself along with Merlin, stroking them together. The pull was too rough, though, so Merlin tugged at Arthur’s shoulders and pushed him down to the bed.

Arthur sprawled back against the pillows and Merlin kneeled between his legs. “Just look at you,” Merlin whispered. The light _caressed_ Arthur, making him glow, ethereal, but Arthur also looked sinful and decadent. His lips were wet and rosy pink from Merlin’s kiss. His eyes were almost cerulean in the light, and all the force of their gaze was directed at Merlin. He dropped his head and grasped Arthur’s erection, lapping his tongue at the tip before taking the length into his mouth. Merlin made love to Arthur with his mouth. He took, greedily, and reveled in the broken sounds Arthur made as he came undone. He trembled beneath Merlin’s hands, gasped, moaned. “Merlin,” he said, “I want…”

“Yes?” Merlin licked down, lower. “Anything you want, Arthur.”

“Inside…”

It was Merlin’s turn to shiver. His own arousal was almost painful as it brushed against the bedding. Merlin bent lower as he pushed up at Arthur’s legs. Arthur let himself relax into the position and Merlin dragged his tongue across his entrance.

The sound Arthur made was nearly a shout, and Merlin watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He hummed in pleasure and continued to lap at Arthur. Arthur fisted one hand in Merlin’s hair and clutched at the bedding, desperately, with the other. “Please, Merlin—ah—I—” he flung his head to the side as Merlin stroked him and licked. “Gods—stop teasing, just…”

Merlin slid his finger inside Arthur. He watched his face, as Arthur’s body went completely still. Arthur met his stare, his lips parted.

“Are you okay?” Merlin asked.

“I think—” And then he moaned as Merlin withdrew his finger a few centimetres. “More,” Arthur whispered. Merlin thrust in again. “Yes,” Arthur whispered, throwing his head back.

Merlin took Arthur back into his mouth and curled his finger just so, and Arthur made noises that were incoherent. Arthur bucked his hips and Merlin delicately added another finger.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, “I want to…”

Merlin pulled back again. “Anything.”

“Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“You know.”

“What?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Merlin.”

Merlin drew his mouth into a pout. “Then don’t be a cabbage head.”

“Cabbage head?”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to… take… inside… Damn it, Merlin! _Have me_.”

Merlin pulled his hands back and looked down at Arthur, obscene and glorious on the bed. He stood up, slowly, walked to his knapsack, and pulled out a small bottle.

“What’s that?”

“Borrowed from the galley.” Merlin stepped back to the bed and unstopped the bottle. He slicked his hand with the oil and took himself in hand. Arthur’s chest heaved in growing anticipation as Merlin stared him down, stroking himself and watching Arthur fight to restrain himself. “Maybe I should think twice before making the gods more jealous,” Merlin whispered.

“If this is destiny, Merlin, they’ve given you to me.”

“Or you to me.”

“Either way, come here.”

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Merlin pushed into Arthur slowly. “Relax,” he whispered, stroking his hardness, caressing his chest. He watched the emotions flit across Arthur’s face: pleasure, something a little like fear, something almost like pain. When Merlin pulled back and thrust, Arthur bit his lip and moaned. Merlin braced himself above Arthur and let his body find a rhythm that had them sweaty, breathless, and on the edge of that fathomless fall Merlin knew they rapidly neared.

Arthur’s moans were unbridled, and Merlin realized his sounded the same, as Arthur said, “More, Merlin, yes.” Merlin pulled himself out and grabbed Arthur’s shoulders, spinning him around in the bed, flipping him over. Merlin pushed into him from behind and Arthur pressed his face into the bed to muffle his yells. Arthur reached back a hand and gripped at Merlin’s thigh as Merlin ran his hands up Arthur’s back, marveling again at his strength, his form, that he was— “Mine,” Merlin whispered.

“Yours,” Arthur said tenderly, raggedly. Their fingers found each other and Merlin lost control. He laid claim to Arthur’s body, losing himself in it, in their passion. He thrust deeply, fully, giving all of himself as Arthur rocked back against him, rasping out “Yes” and “There” until Merlin wasn’t sure where his body ended and how much was really him, or if they were merging, at last, into that one complete being. Merlin took Arthur in hand and just that small touch pushed him over the edge. Merlin stroked him through the pulsing aftershocks in tandem with his final thrusts and then he saw stars as he let himself follow. “ _Iċ lufie þē_ ,” Merlin gasped, feeling his magic swell and surge. He collapsed against Arthur, relishing the warmth and exhaustion. He was boneless. His body felt as if it had been hollowed out and filled up with Arthur instead of himself. Or as if they both fit it together, somehow, not as two halves, but as two whole entities merged into one; Merlin felt bigger. His spirit was expanded, his very essence.

“I love you, too,” Arthur said.

Merlin forced his mind to focus. “You understood?”

“I told you, I had a very expensive education.”

“But those are words from the old religion.”

Arthur shrugged. “I know a little.”

“I guess you aren’t as dumb as you look after all.”

Arthur wrestled Merlin onto his back in seconds, but Merlin distracted him with kisses and softer touches, and soon Merlin forgot to brag that he’d won.

 

The trip to Camelot took four days. Uther received them in the great hall like he was holding court, and Merlin noticed, now, how tense Arthur was. There was love there, Merlin thought, but also antagonism—a strange competition that was foreign to Merlin’s concept of family. Still, Uther looked proud when Arthur presented him with the white dragon key and spoke of Vortigern’s defeat. He didn’t say he’d beat him in single combat, but perhaps it was best to not reveal Arthur’s triumph where Uther had failed years before.

 

The next day, Merlin walked to the library. Merlin loved the path to the library. It wound through the best parts of Camelot: workshops with apprentices learning their trades, huts where priestesses mixed arcane elixirs. Merlin paused before stepping among the standing stones. The day was cold, but the weather was fine, and Merlin took off his gloves and pressed his hands against the cool rock.

“You really are weird.” Arthur stood near the circle center.

Merlin tried not to grin but failed spectacularly. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. He walked toward Arthur, met him halfway.

“We go to London next week. Are you ready?”

“To be presented to the high queen?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Well it’s happening, Emrys.”

“I don’t think I like you calling me that.”

“That’s what everyone’s going to be calling you, and—hey.” Arthur frowned. “What’s wrong?” He took Merlin’s hands.

“I’m still getting used to the idea of being known. It’s one thing for everyone in Camelot to know, visiting Druids, but this is… bigger.” Merlin considered. “You’ve had this your whole life. You’ve never not had people know you.”

Arthur shrugged. “I got used to it. Merlin, if it bothers you so much, I can make excuses…”

“No, I know this is time.” He heard the stones whispering around them. “This is what I’m here for, what Fate has ruled.”

“And I will be by your side through it all.”

“As I will be by yours.”

 

Merlin and Arthur hooked their arms together and walked on to the library, in step by instinct, effortlessly.

Behind them, the breeze through the stone circle sang. In the distance was the quiet thrum of a harp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Once again, practice safe sex in consensual circumstances only; use condoms, they're easy to get at PP (I think for free, even, if you ask nicely).
> 
> Oh goodness, I can't believe this is finished.
> 
> There WILL be an epilogue, and a couple of extra pieces that I'll put in as a series. I'm going out of civilization (no Internet or phone) for a long weekend, and will hopefully have some goodies when I get back!
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading and leaving kudos, comments, or bookmarks. I know this story definitely isn't for everyone, and your support means more to me than I can say. I'm so happy I found such a great community to be a part of. So much love <3 <3 <3 XO


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaand... I'm back with an epilogue!
> 
> Pure fluff. The fluffiest fluff I could floof.
> 
> There's probably a tiny bit of angst, but that's because this world has its own logic and rules that can't be eliminated for the sake of feelings.

The prince’s name was Arthur, but they called him Wart. He was headstrong, and some days it seemed he was always in trouble. Growing up in castles had advantages, however, and Wart knew just whom to flash a grin at to get the freshest cakes handed over or the fastest stallion saddled. He knew that someday he would lose what freedom he had, that the mantle of responsibility would fall on his shoulders, as it had for all of his parents. Consequently, Wart took every opportunity to escape.

His father, the king, understood. He’d done the same, he said, in many of the same woods—especially when Wart was at Camelot. And Wart _loved_ Camelot. The palace was home for much of the year, but Camelot was special in an entirely different way. The ancient paths seemed to speak to him, sometimes, especially as he grew older. And his dad’s workshops—his other dad, that is—his workshops in London lacked the esoteric mystique the ancient rooms held in Camelot.

Ambrosia agreed. “Let’s see what Dad is doing,” she said.

It was summer in Camelot, and his sister had pinned her wavy brown mop up under a hat. Wart could think of nothing better than sprawling in his dad’s cool workshop, beneath the fans he enchanted to endlessly turn. But Ambrosia was his little sister, so he had to tease her at least a little.

“I’m not afraid of a little sweat. You scurry on, but I’m a _boy_ , and I’m tough, so I’m going to keep playing.”

“Father says girls can be just as tough as boys, you know,” Ambrosia said. “Gender is… imaterrible.”

“Immaterial.”

“Right. Just look at Mother or Aunt Morgana.”

And it sounded like something his fathers would say, so Wart helped Ambrosia up on her pony and they went to find them.

 

Ambrosia squealed when she saw Father sitting at the side of Dad’s workshop. She launched herself into his lap, and he wrapped his arms around her. Father was dressed casually, and Wart thought he was dressed quite like him today. The thought made him straighten his shoulders a bit so he’d look even more like him. Dad always said that made him look like Father.

“Come help me with this, Arthur. Wart knew that meant him, so he sidled up next to Dad at the table. “Can you stir this for me?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a potion I’m trying that will transform whoever drinks it into a troll.”

“Eeeww!” Ambrosia said, and Father laughed and tickled her.

“Why would anyone want to transform into a troll?” Wart asked.

“That, son, is a wise question. I don’t know yet, but it may eventually be handy. Here.” He handed Wart a spoon.

“I can stir it,” Ambrosia said. “I’ve been working on my cooking incatations.”

“Incantations, love. And I need your brother for this because it is very important someone stir it _very_ _carefully_ by hand.”

Wart saw Ambrosia start to pout. “But I’ll need your help on the next potion,” Dad said. “I’m thinking next I can make a mermaid disguise…”

“I want a dragon disguise!” she exclaimed.

“Of course you do.” Both his fathers laughed, giving each other one of those looks that usually made Wart roll his eyes and make yuck sounds.

“You know,” Father said, giving Ambrosia another squeeze, “this used to be your great uncle Gaius’ laboratory, and your dad came here to learn to be a healer.”

“But you’re not a healer,” Wart said.

“I was bad at it.”

“Rubbish at it,” Father agreed.

It was strange to think of Dad being bad at anything. “Is that why they don’t let you stay in Camelot?” asked Ambrosia.

“Dad doesn’t stay here because your mother needs him in London, princess,” Father said. “Just like I need him.”

“But we could all live in Camelot, then. I mean all of us together.”

Dad walked over and picked up Ambrosia from Father’s lap. “I know you love Camelot, sweetheart. So do I. But we have to go to London because that is where all the decisions get made. The very important decisions your father and mother make.”

“But I thought _you_ made the decisions and they just announced them, Daddy.”

“What is this now?” Father asked. His eyes went wide like he was surprised or mad, but then he was laughing and pulling at Dad, who had to let Ambrosia go before she was squished. First, Father got him in a headlock, and then he was giving him kisses, which was just embarrassing. Really, Wart thought. Old people were just gross.

 

     *        *        *        *        *        *        *

 

Arthur had not been certain he wanted children. His relationship with Uther had been fraught. He had never discussed it with Merlin, naturally, because he knew they had few options and, while their relationship wasn’t a secret, they were private. Camelot was a safe place where they were free to be themselves, but the empress called on them with increasing frequency as the months and years passed.

Arthur still had autonomy, but any time a particularly delicate or challenging situation arose, she summoned him. Not only was he summoned for military operations, but also for nuanced political maneuverings; both he and Merlin had a certain knack for policy and diplomacy.

“I know I can trust you,” the high queen said. “And Merlin.” She had appointed him her Royal Sorcerer as soon as it was revealed he was, yes, _The_ Emrys. Arthur remembered how red Merlin turned as she presented him with the honorary robes and the feathered hat (which was, Arthur thought, just absolutely sublime).

They became close friends, and Merlin had agreed, when he met her lover, that it was a storybook romance, albeit the tragic kind.

“Just real,” Arthur said. “Reality is seldom perfect. Multiple territories, they say, would revolt if she married him.”

“And we can’t do anything?”

“Not this time. He’s too polarizing. His politics are too progressive.”

“But we all agree on most things…”

“The people don’t know that. Or, anyway, _these people_ don’t. They can’t. She has to stay neutral.”

“All that power, and she can’t even be with him. What if they want a child?”

“Oh, he can’t. That’s why his nephew is his heir.”

“Oh. Then…” They both shrugged.

 

Years passed before they arrived at the solution. The people were growing uneasy. Empires require stability, and dynasties require an heir.

“I’ve thought about it extensively,” she said. “For years now. And you are the only person—the only people—I trust with this.”

At first, they had disagreed. Arthur was adamant, if he couldn’t marry Merlin, he would marry no one.

“Arthur, be honest,” Merlin had said. “We’ve known this is coming for so long.”

“And I told you I didn’t want it.”

“But that was before we knew the rest of the story. Arthur…” Merlin had let a tear escape. “We could have children. And so could she.”

“Did you know about the children? Have you seen this, or Freya—did she say anything?”

“Honestly, no.”

“But you really _do_ want them?”

“I hadn’t even thought it possible.”

“Merlin.”

“Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

 

Prince Arthur was born at Christmastime, like his father had been, and the empire celebrated for weeks. Princess Ambrosia was born a few years later at Easter. She was christened after her great uncle, though few knew the story.

Even fewer knew the truth of their conceptions and births. And if anyone noticed the king and queen never shared a bedchamber—even in this modern age—they knew better than to mention it. The household staff was smart and kind, and chosen because of this.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. It worked.  


     *        *        *        *        *        *        *

 

When Ambrosia was thirteen, her dad took her to Bryn Myrddin in Wales.

“I have an old friend I need to visit,” he said.

Ambrosia had been on a few other trips like this, but usually Father and Wart came. Once they’d seen a unicorn, which everyone seemed to think she loved. It was fine, but Ambrosia _really_ loved when they’d met the dragon. He was massive and spoke in riddles and metaphor, which she didn’t completely understand.

Father said all dragons were like that, so it must be true.

When they reached Bryn Myrddin, Ambrosia was disappointed because it was just a hill with a small cave, and not even a cave with puzzle chambers like she’d heard of.

There was a little spring and pool of water outside the cave, and Ambrosia asked if she could have a drink.

“Yes, but leave some for the god, too—thank gods your grandfather isn’t here to see this.”

“Merlin.” In the doorway stood the oldest man Ambrosia had ever seen.

“Galapas.” They hugged each other like family would, and Ambrosia wondered if he was another uncle she hadn’t known. Sometimes it was hard to keep track in a family as big as hers.

“Ambrosius?”

“Ambrosia,” she said, curtseying.

“You look just like your dad. Come in, come in, and sit by the fire.”

It was a surprisingly comfortable cave, Ambrosia thought, and Dad just smiled when she started to explore. There was a harp in the corner, and there were books everywhere.

“Where is your kitchen?” she asked, running her hands through a sack of dried herbs like those in her dad’s workshop.

“Right here,” Galapas said, gesturing to the fire. “My meals are simple.”

“Are you a Druid?”

“Not quite.”

“Then what?”

“Is your father a Druid?”

“Not really.”

“See?”

Ambrosia nodded. She did.

“Ambrosia, I need you to stay here with Galapas while I go into the back part of the cave.”

She looked at the opening, and back at her dad. “Why?”

“I have to go alone.”

“What’s back there?”

“It’s a crystal cave.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s for scrying, a bit like your aunts do.”

“Okay.” Dad took a torch with him, and the light reflected from the crystals was brilliant and a little scary. Ambrosia turned to Galapas. “Have you lived here long?” she asked because it was polite.

“Several years. I grew up here, but I lived for a long time in Camelot.”

“I live in Camelot sometimes. I quite like it there.”

“Me too.”

“Then why did you leave? Wart—that’s my brother—and I, we say we’d never leave Camelot if we were able.”

“What do you love about Camelot?”

“It’s home. I can be me there, and Wart is just Wart, and Dad and Father and Mother and Uncle M—though he doesn’t come so often…”

“Are the people afraid of your magic, in London?” Galapas’ eyes kept flitting to the fire while he talked, like her aunts’ did sometimes.

“Probably. But my parents say they have to get over it. What is the fire showing you?”

“That I should give you this.” Galapas opened a heavy trunk and pulled out an enormous, ancient-looking book.

Ambrosia turned to a random page. “I can’t do this,” she said.

“Yet.”

Her dad looked exhausted when he rejoined them at the fire. Galapas had given her a cup of cider and she handed it to him.

“You gave her this?” he asked Galapas. “She’s too young for this.” Ambrosia wasn’t sure if he meant the cider or the grimoire.

“So were you, Merlin.”

Dad sat down. “It’s finally done,” he said. “Morgause is…” his eyes were teary, so Ambrosia sat on his knee like she had when she was little. “She’s finally gone.”

It was funny, Ambrosia thought, that people said boys don’t cry. Dad always cried about happy things. Father always cried about sad things. Mother hardly ever cried. Aunt Freya cried all the time.

 

     *        *        *        *        *        *        *

 

The night of their daughter’s wedding, Merlin and Arthur laid awake late into the night. Merlin conjured a little fire and shaped it into a pair of dragons that danced and leapfrogged over each other above them.

Arthur kissed his forehead. “I can’t wait to have grandchildren.”

“We can’t pressure them. You know how she is.”

“She gets that from you.”

“No, she gets that from you. You never do what I tell you to do.”

“Merlin, that is just completely backward. _You_ never follow any of my instructions—my _commands_.”

“Well, _sire_ , that’s because your commands are usually to do something that will get you killed.”

“My commands are always meant to keep you safe.”

Merlin laughed. “Remember that time in Algiers with the djinn?”

Arthur snorted. “I’m thinking of the time in Vancouver with the ducks.”

Merlin groaned. “That was not my fault.”

“Still. Or that time in Singapore, remember that?”

“I’m remembering a very _special_ trip to Cairo, actually, that you seem to have forgotten.”

“That one was not my fault.”

“Yes it was!”

“No, I absolutely deny that.”

 

When Arthur kissed him, it felt different to Merlin than those first kisses had. Their love had been intense from the beginning, and those kisses consumed. But now, every day since had increased that love. It defied logic or explanation. Merlin had loved Arthur with every part of himself; fully, completely. Yet every moment since, that love had expanded and strengthened, even as it didn’t seem possible. Even when it hurt.

The kisses, the lovemaking, had changed. They were clarity and certainty, sun-bright and deep as the ocean. Merlin smiled. “Want to watch the sunrise?”

“Sure,” Arthur said. “But I’ve got plans for you first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you aren't a Mary Stewart reader: the spring outside Galapas and Merlin's cave is a pagan shrine (which I imagine would freak show/story Uther out).
> 
> Finally, thanks again for coming with me on this. I'm currently about halfway through a Galahad & Gwaine (have yet to see if they're slash; they haven't told me) piece. I've been busy for work, so it's taking a long time.
> 
> Once again, I love you all. I wish for each of you that you find a love that intensifies each day, despite you thinking you could not love each other any more than you already do.


End file.
